La Voz del Poeta - Medina Azahara

Cuando el invierno se acaba

solo queda el silencio y su voz

y esa estrella que brillaba

como el humo de él se marchó.

Solo queda el recuerdo y su voz apagada

y ecos de falsas promesas que nadie cumplió.

Y ahora queda en su alma

solo la gente y las cosas que le hacen soñar

lo demás no importa,

solo buscó de este mundo tener libertad.

Siempre pensó que una estrella

podría brillar mucho más que el sol

pero llegó la tormenta

y su estrella de él se marchó.

Solo queda del poeta su voz apagada

y ecos de falsos profetas que el mundo creó.

Y ahora queda en su alma

solo la gente y las cosas que le hacen soñar

lo demás no importa,

solo buscó de este mundo tener libertad.

Y esa estrella que buscaba

como el agua en sus manos a él se le escapó

ya nada importa

a veces sueña con cielos que él no conoció

pero en su alma

sigue buscando su mundo y tener libertad

ya nada importa

solo la gente y las cosas que le hacen soñar.

Solo queda el recuerdo y su voz apagada

y ecos de falsas promesas que nadie cumplió.

Solo queda del poeta su voz apagada

y ecos de falsos profetas que el mundo creó.

Que el mundo creó.

When the winter is over

only silence and his voice remain

and that star that shone

as the smoke from him went away.

Only the memory remains and his voice is off

and echoes of false promises that no one kept.

And now he remains in her soul

just the people and things that make you dream

the rest does not matter,

he only sought from this world to have freedom.

He always thought that a star

could shine much brighter than the sun

but the storm came

and his star departed from him.

Only his muffled voice remains of the poet

and echoes of false prophets that the world created.

And now he remains in her soul

just the people and things that make you dream

the rest does not matter,

he only sought from this world to have freedom.

And that star that he was looking for

like the water in his hands he escaped

nothing matters anymore

sometimes he dreams of skies he didn't know

but in his soul

he keeps looking for his world from him and having freedom

nothing matters anymore

just the people and things that make you dream.

Only the memory remains and his voice is off

and echoes of false promises that no one kept.

Only his muffled voice remains of the poet

and echoes of false prophets that the world created.

That the world created.