Cuando Duerme El Rock And Roll

At certain hours of the night, the sheriff's star hanging from his heart weighs him down. He falls onto the bed, takes off his boots, loosens his belt by two notches, and rock and roll falls asleep, rock and roll falls asleep. When the night is dying, finally, rock and roll falls asleep. And camouflaged in the parade of shadows that move just before the sun rises, a tango peeks its head out, jumps and takes a lamppost by the waist when rock and roll sleeps, when rock and roll sleeps. A lamppost dances a tango when rock and roll sleeps. And moons and balconies are surrounded by the bolero. And a sentimental blues bleeds on the sidewalk watching how the cumbia moves the hips while, indifferent, the waltz spins in the sky, one two three, one two three, one two three, and with its old tuxedo and patent leather shoes click clack click clack... tap shoes splash puddles when rock and roll sleeps. The mambo, the rumba, the guaracha, the joropo, and the cha-cha-chá take to the streets along with some badass vallenato looking for the way back to Valledupar when rock and roll sleeps, when rock and roll sleeps. They slip out of their ghettos when rock and roll sleeps. They shake off nostalgia and oblivion and air themselves out while they wait for the time when the capricious gods of fashion call them back among the chosen ones, yeah yeah yeah, wo wo wo, sha la la, a flamenco pasodoble from a sunny stand, olé olé olé olé, asks for a chance when rock and roll sleeps. And like Cinderella's trousseau, when dawn imposes itself on the darkness everything vanishes in the blink of an eye when the city sheriff wakes up. But when rock and roll sleeps, when rock and roll sleeps, others speak to the silence when rock and roll sleeps.