Con mi cacerola

With my pot and my backpack
I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I'm leaving
through life...

I don't want airplanes,
nor bombers either,
what I want, I want,
are fries with eggs.

With my pot and my backpack...

I don't want to see friends
who live in pain on the street,
I want to sing, and a wine
and music for dancing.

With my pot and my backpack...

Every day is a gift,
a free illusion.
Why be important if you live without emotion.

Like birds and lilies
that God sees and cares for,
filling my pot with illusions and love.
With special people
who want freedom,
to live with very little and help others.

With the sky as a roof,
with bread with brothers,
with the ground as a bed,
I accompany the wounded.

With my pot and my backpack...