En algún lugar del puerto

I'm dreaming, I'm walking, I'm
leaving my footprints in the sand, I'm
and the sea is erasing them, I'm.
The wind climbs up the hills,
with the wind my memories,
running to Aromo hill
rag ball to the sky,
running back home,
my mother always sewing,
my father, where will he be?

The old man was a fisherman
simple like his oars
to live out at sea
he worked inshore,
the sea offered him everything
giving itself quietly
and the sea took his life
with its black whirlpool
a sharp cry of the wind
cuts through the hills:
where did my children go,
how many disappeared?

I'm dreaming, I'm walking, I'm
leaving my footprints in the sand, I'm
and the sea is erasing them, I'm.