1. |
The days have gone
03:53
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I never think about the time
Time is a spider with a hat
I’m proud I’m never seen the worth
I’m too busy to ask if I am right
And I have the right to be right
But looking for sense
Never made any sense to me
Days were hiding waiting to come
Surprising days
I’m so happy what the hell I’m doing with my life
Days were killing the days and the nights
And the days that have gone
Freeze the city
Stop the questions
As I walk through the persons
On the street everybody knows
I wanna be an astronaut
Astronauts on earth that’s what we are
The air it’s getting thicker tonight
I have a question in my mind
But Huston I have a problem I can’t resolve
I forget one thing where is my mind
Days were hiding waiting to come
Surprising days
I’m so happy what the hell I’m doing with my life
Days were killing the days and the nights
And the days that have gone
By Juanjo Santos Mateo
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2. |
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Arrangement from the poem by Sylvia Plath
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Princkling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spirituous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see were there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quite
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky--
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness-blackness and
Silence.
Original Poem:
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.
by Sylvia Plath
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3. |
The great river
05:06
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I can hear the voice of the great river
It says drink from my lips
Where others are also fearing
Wait like a rabbit to his fox
Take yours
Wait like a rabbit
Shame to the clouds that are falling over me
I have born with no sound to the mist
To the mist
I have a stair, the earth runs brings a wind
I can fly
By Coco Moya
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4. |
Werther's original
03:12
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One common morning on the train
The day was mild and bright
The work was done and I was going back home
My mind was settle down in peace
The past was almost gone
And I was ready to depart
And then I choose to sit
By the window in the sun
No hesitation, don’t think twice
And suddenly I saw your leg
in the middle of my way
And only then I noticed you
You said I’m sorry, I was stumned
don’t worry I can pass
An angel came across that place
And then I started to think
I need a good excuse to talk..
Do you want I caramel?
And so the magic began
In my life once again
When I thought it was gone
My faith in love doesn’t end
Baba Nam Kevalam
My faith in love doesn’t end
And then I choose to sit
By the window in the sun
No hesitation, don’t think twice
Baba Nam Kevalam
by Lucia Antonini
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On your bike Madrid, Spain
On your bike es un proyecto que nace en 2009 y actualmente está formado por Clara Megías, Coco Moya y Lucía Antonini. Somos
un grupo de folk-rock acústico con guitarra, viola, melódica, percusión y teclado.
En 2012 fuimos seleccionadas por nuestro EP 2012 de ente las 10 mejores Demos de Madrid de ese año por la revista Mondo Sonoro.
... more
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