| Today I get up, who is shipwrecked,
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| alone and drenched with the perfume of the sea,
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| as if you were in another hemisphere
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| and I will not be able to navigate you anymore.
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| And I have looked out my window,
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| as if it were mine what I see behind.
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| But the landscapes, love, have no owner.
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| As much as I tell you mine you will not be.
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| I'll only confess it once,
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| There is something in you that gives me Something escapes me in melancholy.
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| The time he learned to fly.
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| And it is that love is not perfect,
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| it is an uncertain void,
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| with its shadow and with its light.
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| If this is love, for you I have,
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| it's quite hell,
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| with her tears of light.
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| We are not prepared for all this,
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| We were, but not anymore.
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| It is that love is not a prospect,
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| It's like in those stories, uncertain
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| with its shadow and with the light.
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| Today he has lifted me up with the one who is shipwrecked,
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| But attitude is where the sun shines
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| If another lantern goes out and the soul lights up,
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| alone is the moon outside on the balcony.
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| Then I realize once,
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| I just want to navigate
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| and something turns on inside my agony,
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| the hours do not know how to love
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| And it is that love is not perfect,
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| it is an uncertain corridor,
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| with its shadow and with its light.
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| And it is that love goes in the wind
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| into the open sea
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| with its shadow and with its light.
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| We are not prepared for all this.
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| We were, and not anymore.
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| And it is that love,
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| goes on the wind towards the open sea,
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| with its shadow and with light.
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| And it is that the love that I want,
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| it is like a port, immense,
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| with the shadow and with the light.
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| With its shadow... and with its light...
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| All about David Bisbal: |