In the neighborhood they mourn your absence
and they curse your brown destiny.
They run out of hash in the old square
and out of booze in the off-license.
They drank to your memory,
the lads from La Mina1.
It rains in Barna2, they sing you bulerías3
You are neither hero nor villain.
But you were beat
by life in the gray fringes.
Free, free I want to be, I want to be free,
they sing across the landings of La Modelo4.
in the courtyard they remember you, they bless you.
At the age of 40 no one was older.
Dethroned king of the steering wheel,
they no longer re-run your tapes
at the old film library.
Street sellers
take the day off.
Sad is even the wood5.
Today in the celestial ghettoes
at the worst joint
El Durruti6 buys you drinks.
A Seat 1247
waits outside
with the engine on.
Divine trumpets play
a Chichos song8.
Before being born you were already a jailbird,
then you drank mirages through a needle.
There was never such rage in a cell
and cirrhosis averted your last escape.
Justice is ruthless
for those who ain't got no dough
and only resistance remains.
Life in the fringes always
cruel, always opens a wound,
you were its scar.
Today in the celestial ghettoes
at the worst joint
El Durruti buys you drinks.
A Seat 124
waits outside
with the engine on.
Divine trumpets play
a Chichos song.
Today in the celestial ghettoes
at the worst joint
El Durruti buys you drinks.
A Seat 124
waits outside
with the engine on.
An angel in its stereo plays
a Chichos rumba.
Free, free, I want to be,
I want to be, I want to be free.
