Madera
Manuel Garcia
Wood
The years will pass
New moons will come
The light of a candle
Will make your silhouette fragile
Like sperm will cry
Slow tears
I will make a glass angel
By gathering wax
No one should suspect
That the wood
Has ten years of burning
This way
The years will pass
New moons will come
And the mountain range
Will be just like you, companion
No one should imagine
That your hair
Is as deep as the sea
Between my fingers
No one should suspect
That the wood
Has ten years of burning
This way
