I have to leave, my sweetheart,
others left before me.
Everybody knows migrant birds
can always find their way back.
Everybody knows migrant birds
can always find their way back.

Don't cry anymore, my sweetheart,
because I'm not seeking oblivion.
I'm just looking for a future and an horizon,
the lighthouse that guides the lost castaway.
I'm just looking for a future and an horizon,
the lighthouse that guides the lost castaway.

Get on that Zitarrosa bus
on a Sunday morning,
that one which used to take us up to the hill.
You will search the sleeping town
for the dream we had as kids.
You will search the sleeping town
for the dream we had as kids.

You will water properly, my sweetheart,
our garden and the memories.
And when you go for a walk at the market
you will toast to my health with a glass of wine and champagne.
And when you go for a walk at the market
you will toast to my health with a glass of wine and champagne.

I will return soon, my sweetheart,
and the wounded neighborhood will heal.
Everybody knows migrant birds
can always find their way back.
Everybody knows migrant birds
can always find their way back.