She is called Macarena,
and she has a sentence to fulfill.

She cuts her hair and she is sad,
time is running out.

In reality,
it was the godmother,
who took her to another garden.

She was confused by nine moons,
the child did not see her coming.

She escapes and she is sad,
they can no longer concede.

The child fulfilled his sentence,
a letter he learned to write.

She was the aura of the school,
the columns in diagonal.

She was in defense of a star,
and a love of hormone.

Like a rod of intense rubble,
she was the insensitivity over the sea.

It was not for ego or for the mind,
I respected even Balthazar.

I left the game,
I was born again,
I accepted the fire and I knew how to love.

It has no rules,
it is a blind use,
the more you see,
the more you want to give.

There are pilgrims with a melon,
they want gold and elixir.

The young crepuscular who learned to die late.

The metaphor that,
Macarena carries here to live.

It is the time that we have left to learn to exist.

The autumn that judges us,
will not be able to love again.

It is the wind in the tide,
now I am Peter Park.

I look at you without the sphema because of your envy and anxiety.

You do not confuse innocence with false freedom.

Like a rod of intense rubble,
she was the insensitivity over the sea.

It was not for ego or for the mind,
I respected even Balthazar.

I left the game,
I was born again,
I accepted the fire and I knew how to love.

It has no rules,
it is a blind use,
the more you see,
the more you want to give.