La Historia de Mil Historias

I want to drop a new song (x 3)
If this is the story
Of the village
The story of a thousand stories
Villager and the bi
26 muses
The village baby
Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo
On the night of the twenty-fifth day of the tenth month
I was born in eighty-four, a year chosen for my shine
My mother was in a tough spot
Life and death were fighting for her fate after the C-section
They would call me Oscar Rodríguez Gala
From then on
Voices of two beings who day and night would be with me and give
A humble life to this one who serves you today
Good View Beach, my corner fifty-nine
That’s where I learned to talk and take my first steps
To hold myself up, stumble, and play barefoot
That’s where I took my first photo, built my stroller
And I didn’t recognize my dad when he came back from Angola, I saw
My mother alone, crying for hours without comfort
'Cause the old man took off, far from his ground
After nine years old, believe me, I had to
Leave my home because of a landslide
In a wake-up call, my life was disoriented
My family looked down on
It’s a frozen zone, after several weeks it was
That I could understand that
I wasn’t the first or the last to live in a shelter
Shelter of blind grudges behind foolish phrases
I noticed my ego falling, my strength in silence
Life offered me few opportunities
Rocks to trip over and a sea of false friendships
Difficult ages like missiles to my existence
Adolescence attacked, erring without mercy
Patience and intelligence I learned to show like a mirror
And tried to grow old listening to my own advice
Complexes would fuck with me, they’d come to me
It would be the way I turned day by day
Into the one who loves and wasn’t loved
And when they loved, they found another faithful one they didn’t seek
I didn’t even leave because of my broken shoes
Few good moments, crazy challenges, empty efforts
And dreams of my own house and girlfriend broke my reason
My fun was painting and walking where few pass
Listening to records and dancing with the salsa doctor
Hope and peace I fed under pressure, vocation
At twelve, I wrote my first song, first disappointment
I cling to the sincere without fear
They could show you part of my life, well now

Talk to me about you, tell me about your life
The story and its stories with stories like these
The story absorbs stories that aren’t told out of fear
The story of a thousand stories, nobody knows how to tell
The story of a thousand stories doesn’t fit in a book
The story made its history with stories like this
The story absorbs stories that aren’t told out of fear
The story of a thousand stories doesn’t fit in a book
The story of a thousand stories, nobody knows how to tell

March seventeenth, eighty-three, I was born
To Estela Matías, I saw when I opened my eyes
Before saying pee-pee, I first learned
To ask with what permission I was brought here
I grew up among women, my crib was bronze
I had little soldiers, fish, day and night
A stuffed animal
A great ignorance, a bed, and a lullaby
That made my first chivichana
As a kid, I dreamed of being the hero of the school
And at parent-teacher meetings, the teachers would raffle my grandma
Good news, I always gave very little
I came home more than three times with a broken head
Now I’m here from my room writing
What I lived from the moment I was born until the moment
I decided to narrate the legend of the MC on paper
Who stepped on more stages than grand stores
I mixed with the shit, oh, ladies galore
That’s why I haven’t had a girlfriend who’s been faithful
I was sweet as honey
With each one, every hour, and ended up crying and drinking aged rum half an hour later
My story is just one among the very few
That managed to wander from mouth to mouth and make others rhyme
Stories of defeats that I turned into victories
Keeping silent before the fool and trusting in me
Few trusted me, many ignored me, sure
I wasn’t clear, didn’t have big bucks or a fancy car
A rare citizen who, for which, in shamelessness never fell and no
Betrayed for ridiculous items, first chapter, verse, my circle
Of the trembling without a school title, a great article, well
With my balls and my autobiography
They’ll make a library full of my poems
Day by day, weeks passed, and I in that corner
Where the cleanest thing was the weed
Arguing was my job in that doorway
With kids who went to court ten times a week
I met my sister and my brothers, all three
I don’t know much about my dad, my grandma writes to him sometimes, it seems
This is the story of the village, now if you wish
Talk to me about you, tell me about your life

Talk to me about you, tell me about your life
The story and its stories with stories like these
The story absorbs stories that aren’t told out of fear
The story of a thousand stories, nobody knows how to tell
The story of a thousand stories doesn’t fit in a book
The story made its history with stories like this
The story absorbs stories that aren’t told out of fear
The story of a thousand stories doesn’t fit in a book
The story of a thousand stories, nobody knows how to tell