Tarrés

That Tarrés who walks backwards, writes backwards and never has enough.
Who wears the right sock on the left foot to look different from me. When he comes, I'm not there. Where I arrive, he's gone, and if he returns, I don't know if he stays or goes. It wouldn't matter to me if it weren't because he is nothing without me and I am nobody without him. That Tarrés, who doesn't fit under my skin and brings out my wild side with him. He's content with the Sun giving fire and light and God granting us health to be able to drink. And at dawn with four extra drinks, he despises me and denies me wherever he goes. It wouldn't matter to me if I didn't pay off the debts that Tarrés forgot in the night. But when he's not there, the liquor chokes me, friends leave, and my love doesn't want me. If Tarrés isn't there, it rains in the heart, my woman doesn't dance, and the song falls silent. Without that Tarrés, who walks backwards, writes backwards and never has enough. That Tarrés, who walks backwards, writes backwards and never has enough.