A Ese Pájaro Dorado...
Joan Manuel Serrat
To That Golden Bird...
To that love... To that golden bird that takes flight and splits the sky in two circling the sun and sin. To that capricious and libertarian love without silences to make it quiet nor cages to cage it. What a shame, that everyday clothes don't suit his clean face. That love, oh what a delicate flower it is. To that love bundle of trivialities that blooms in full moon and withers in constraints. To that love that burns poorly in the brazier, that drowns in a tear and spreads little in the pot. What a shame, that everyday clothes don't suit his clean face. That love, oh what a delicate flower it is.
