I turned on the radio like in a
pagan, misterious and football-like ritual,
I crossed my fingers again,
for the colors of my darling.
My team went in, today they went to kill,
the world explodes and I die,
through the crystal radio I hear them going in,
may my heart blow up.
I'm there,
I know I'm not, but I'm there,
if the radio guy tells it
I fly up a kite in every goal,
I know I'm not, but I'm there.
Behind the parapets of the loneliness,
or the cold bars of a cell,
over the silence of the hospital,
the gray yell of the slum.
It crosses the walls of reason,
it stops the time and the bitterness,
like a far light is that voice
that makes my country dream.
I'm there,
I know I'm not, but I'm there,
if the radio guy tells it
I fly up a kite in every goal,
I know I'm not, but I'm there.
The messenger who broke his voice,
crying in thousands of impossible achievments,
painted dribbles in my heart
with his masterful omen.
From bis words I learned to wait
some unexpected miracle,
the old radio will scream again
the furious goal of the end.
I'm there,
I know I'm not, but I'm there,
if the radio guy tells it
I fly up a kite in every goal,
I know I'm not, but I'm there.
I'm there,
I know I'm not, but I'm there,
if the radio guy tells it
I fly up a kite in every goal,
I know I'm not, but I'm there.