| Little bad streak piano
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| That grinds stories... let's see!
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| If the limp shows the hilacha
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| From her waltz to the girl
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| The one that no one wants to see!
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| VOICES OF THE MEN WHO RETURNED FROM THE MYSTERY (Recited)
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| Let the Devil soak in Garnacha
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| His lame paw when grinding
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| Time shows the thread
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| And no one wants to see it!
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| THE ELF (Saying)
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| She came from that transbarioteric dimension
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| Where she reaches she, to hope, a barrier and a way;
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| The bell, three stars, a shadow under the eyes of the gloomy balcony, a goal, the square...
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| The unhurried sun of a mass with mornings and neighbors and pigeons;
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| Some young men who hit the skirts;
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| And a platform, with another smoke and another sorrow and another waiting train
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| A ninth a harlot, a storehouse
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| The little girl was born one day
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| That God was drunk:
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| That's why, in her voice, they hurt
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| Three left-handed nails… It was born
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| With an insult in her voice!
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| VOICES OF THE MEN WHO RETURNED FROM THE MYSTERY (Recited)
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| Three black nails… One day
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| that God was mufada
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| Three black nails… One day
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| I was tin god
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| THE ELF (Saying)
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| And two angel sharks from the brown guard
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| Two rare pigeons that were trotting along the nice shore
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| They brought -crying- the Girl on the back
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| In the mulatto lime of the last wall
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| Folding the tin wings with sorrow
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| They engraved her name on her: Maria, with brown bullets
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| Of sand and cold they made his days so hard!
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| And, behind the river
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| There where the river meets nothing
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| With a question embroidered on the skirt
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| The Girl Maria grew up in seven days
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| Shoe against luck
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| Milonga to luck of truth
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| What a crummy staff
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| -without crying or loving you-
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| I was phrasing in your solitude…
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| VOICES OF THE MEN WHO RETURNED FROM THE MYSTERY (Recited)
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| Little… what reverse luck
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| Know the whole truth!
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| The Zapada of death
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| He pointed at his loneliness
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| THE ELF (Saying)
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| Like this city, of mourning and partying
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| Stolen from the bitches and rutting witches who push life
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| Maria was a bit of the crazy sleeplessness of each suicidal and empty deck
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| Play to the lost bet of loneliness
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| She was the verse of craving broncado at the door of the first failure
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| And the one-eyed rose of a lame clown
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| Goddess and tormentor, from heaven and from the underworld, it was the same trap
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| And tied by a hair by the dawn they go
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| His share of abyss from her, his share of bread
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| And in the neighborhood, the harpies
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| Old women in black hoods
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| As in a Eucharist
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| Mugrentera, by Maria
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| Lunfardos pray on the cross
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| VOICES OF THE MEN WHO RETURNED FROM THE MYSTERY (Recited)
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| There in the neighborhood, Maria
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| They have named your cross!
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| Maria de Agorería
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| You will have two tangos per cross...
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| THE ELF (Saying)
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| But those men
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| The rude masters of my sadness
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| What do you know about the mute roll up that fits that name
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| And they have returned -in their own way- so dull
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| So serious of all our mysteries
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| When there is full grief canyengueando the air of the tanneries
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| They name it -barely-
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| Barking at his memory the shadow of the tangos that were already
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| And they don't exist yet
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| Sad Maria from Buenos Aires…
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| THE ELF (Saying)
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| of forgetfulness you are
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| among all women
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| Sad Maria from Buenos Aires…
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| THE ELF (Saying)
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| of forgetfulness you are
|
| among all women
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| Sad Maria from Buenos Aires…
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| THE ELF (Saying)
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| of forgetfulness you are
|
| among all women
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| THE VOICE OF A PAYADOR (Sung)
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| Sad Maria from Buenos Aires…
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| THE ELF (Saying)
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| of forgetfulness you are
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| among all women |