The songs don't write themselves, but they are born from themselves. They are the things that happen every day around us. The songs, just take them, there is one for you too. You make it harder to live and you never smile. The songs are stingers and they steal poems. They are deceits like pills of happiness. The songs don't heal loves and diseases. But that little pain that exists recites it. It will pass, it will pass. If a boy and a guitar are me, with you in the city. To look at this life that doesn't go. That kills us with illusions and with the age of the songs. It will pass over us. We will all end up in the bank sooner or later. Then why, who knows. And the anguish of a rich poverty. To talk about the loves you don't have. To sing a song that you don't know how to do. Because you lost it inside and you only remember. It will pass. In a world of high-speed cars. Because it always comes last for those who say goodbye. For those who fight in the obstacles of diversity. Those songs on the sky that sing in the dark. It will pass sooner or later. This little pain that is in you and in me. That is in us and makes us feel like sailors. Wrecked by the wind and nostalgia. To sing a song that you don't know how to do. This little pain that is in you and in me. It will pass. It will pass, it will pass. Even if you do that so much. It will pass, it will pass. And it will be useful for something. This little pain, that is hate, that is love. It will pass.