Everyone thinks about it,
Men, angels, vultures,
There are more distances,
No one has arms too short,
Everyone hopes re,
Even in the back of the back yards,
Everyone wants their return ticket,
Love, love, love, love.
Its burst of luck,
The one who burns you, floods you,
But the sky doesn't care,
Since there is none for everyone,
There are people full of emergencies,
Under the lights of the lampshades,
Waiting for their return ticket,
Of love, of 'love, love, love, love.
These angels who dance,
On these tracks soaked in alcohol,
In these immense cellars,
Hair stuck to the shoulders,
Fly away in silence,
And scatter at dawn,
Looking for return tickets,
D 'love, love, love, love, love.
These women who come forward,
Holding at the end of their arms,
These children who throw ,
Stones towards the soldiers,
It's lost in advance,
Pebbles on heavy helmets,
All that for return tickets,
Love, love, love, love, love.
Men, angels, vultures...
No one whose arms are too short...
Everyone thinks about it...