We live the nostalgia of life,
we suffer the punishment of destiny.
With the beauty and shortness of life,
we should be better friends.
I don't know how or when it happened.
They were so noble and plain,
but Mr. Death sent them
down the this road forever.
I said to him, "my little Galician, come with dad."
He said to me, "dad doesn't want me to put up with this."
Once more, on the bad curve of the street,
there the two found the death forever.
Cries does the one who is sad.
Cries does the one who is sad.
The poor one of this family
will always live with it.
Cries does the one who is sad.
Cries does the one who is sad.
The poor one of this family
will always live with it.
They left this world for ever.
I saw those who knew them cry.
I was a witness and was in Seville,
a malicious and bad afternoon made it.
His father returned home and didn't found her,
and looked manically at her portrait.
The days passed without him speaking to anybody,
saying to God, "you have left me."
I said to him, "my little Galician, come with dad."
He said to me, "dad doesn't want me to put up with this."
Once more, on the bad curve of the street,
there the two found the death forever.
Cries does the one who is sad.
Cries does the one who is sad.
The poor one of this family
will always live with it.
Cries does the one who is sad.
Cries does the one who is sad.
The poor one of this family
will always live with it.