Nos sobran los motivos [English translation]

This "good bye" isn't faking a "see you soon",

this "never" is not hiding an "i hope some day",

this ashes doesn't play with fire,

this blind man won't look behind.

This notary signs what I'm writing,

I won't take my words back,

save yourself acknowledging it,

this vespers are from another day. [I don't care anymore]

This nonsense noise, so orphan of a father,

I won't let it to drill

a hearth rotten beating for love.

This fish doesn't die anymore for your mouth,

this crazy man is going with a crazy woman,

this eyes will not cry anymore for you.

This waiting hall, without hope,

the ran-out batteries of a door bell,

this strawberry ice cream from a revenge,

this moving company [furniture movers],

with the furniture of love.

This bell hanging in the belfry,

this half, cut into another half,

this kisses from judas, this suffering,

this inmate look,

this test of humility.

That movement of your hip,

this will for nothing, even less for you

this place without bunch of crickets in spring,

nor back with zippers [back of the body],

nor rings to show off.

This doll house,

this bunch of flowers from salt

this hurricane without eyes to govern him,

this thursday, this friday,

and the wednesday that will come.

(Chorus)

Don't abuse of my inspiration,

don't blame my hearth,

so injured and tousled,

it is closed as it is demolished.

From the wrinkles of my voice,

desolation/sadness is filtered,

because this are,

the last verses I write to you,

to say "[go] with God", to the both of us,

we have plenty of reasons.

This dried bird nest,

this undomesticated Andalusian dog,

this throne of an unthroned prince,

this fishbone,

this ruins of Don Juan [romantic man].

This tear of a caveman,

this shoe shape of Barba Azul, [Pirate Blue Beard],

so little last a "forever life",

in the tunnel of your legs,

between Córdoba and Maipú.

This cynical and hurted guitar,

with his stubborn "knock, knockin'on heaven's door",

this lips that tastes as a good bye

to vinager in the wounds,

to a forgotten scarf in the station.

This thief parked in your toga,

the spinning wheel from Penélope in Luna Park

this jealousy that dreams to undress you

this widow snail

without the ocean's rythm.

(Chorus)

Don't abuse of my inspiration...