At the Puerta del Sol
like on the year that is gone,
again the champagne and the grapes
and the tar are the setting.
The firecrackers that erase the sounds of yesterday
and warm the spirits up
to accept that one more is gone already.
And in the clock of yesteryear,
like in every other year,
five more minutes to the countdown.
We assess the good and the bad.
Five more minutes to the countdown.
Sailors, soldiers, bachelors and married folks,
lovers, walkers and the occasional
absent-minded priest.
Amidst shouts and whistling, the little Spaniards,
the big ones, the short ones, for once we do
something at the same time.
And in the clock of yesteryear,
like in every other year,
five more minutes to the countdown.
We assess the good and the bad.
Five more minutes to the countdown.
And even though there are some new ones to the grapes,
we will miss those who are no longer here.
And let's see if we brighten up, the ones who are alive
and if next year, we laugh.
One, two, three and four, and it starts again
'cause the fifth is the one,
the sixth is the second one, and thus seven is three.
And we say goodbye and we ask God
that in the upcoming year,
instead of it being a million,
let's see if there can be two.
At the Puerta del Sol
like on the year that is gone,
again the champagne and the grapes
and the tar are the setting.