Inspired, the poet writes a line,
a dog goes by and pees on his trouser legs.
Crazy wind!
Crazy wind. Look what your uneasiness has done.
Crazy wind!
Sweet, crazy wind.
Maps of love, screwed up in suitcases, in regional airports.
Ancient prayers written on pieces of paper. Mental calligraphy.
Fugitives from light and peace,
trapped in the blue wind hell.
In summer we are homeless cousins
and in winter, aviators without a sky.
Blow crazy wind, reviving the half asleep fire.
Blow crazy wind, take the ground from under our feet.
Blow crazy wind, don't let anyone ever stop you.
Blow crazy wind, take this sky from above my head.
Blow crazy wind, reviving the half asleep fire.
Blow crazy wind, take the ground from under our feet.
Blow crazy wind, don't let anyone ever stop you.
Blow crazy wind, take this sky from above my head.
It's not too late to begin.
It's so sweet getting used to this revived love.
Too early to finish.
The poet comes back without the dog, without his case and without any fear.
Look at the Earth from the sky.
Look at pain from pleasure and wars from the sofa.
Too early to finish.
Blow crazy wind, make us humble and wipe away footprints and paths.
It's not too late to begin.
It's so sweet getting used to this revived love.
Angel Celada: drums / Juan Carlos García: percussion / Q.P.: voices, guitars, bass, organ, synthesizers, loops and harmonica.