They have abandoned us in the middle of the road.
In the light we went blind.
We are birds of passage, high clouds of summer,
eternal vagabonds.
Bad people who spend singing in the fields.
Although the road is rough and the times are hard,
we sing with the soul. And there is not a single man
that understands the living reason of our song.
We live and die deaths and lives of others.
The dead weigh heavily on our backs.
His deep cry asks us to die a little,
how all of them died,
Let us live fast, burning madly
the life they did not live.
Furious rivers, muddy rivers, fast rivers,
(But nobody measures us deep, but narrow.)
We bite the banks, we tear down the bridges.
They say we're blind.
But we live. They carry our waters, the essence
of the deaths and lives of the living and the dead.
You see if it is really happy to know for sure
that we were born for this.
(