| Acid rain stings my eyes
|
| I'm a whipping boy again.
|
| I see the light at the end of the tunnel
|
| At the end, where the sensors are.
|
| There behind the cordon of understanding
|
| Among the cubes of sublime feelings,
|
| You and the indicator are growing,
|
| Your dead marks the pulse.
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| I scratch you again with golden combs,
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| The hydrocephalus are back for you!
|
| There was nothing to talk about
|
| We drank in silence.
|
| We didn't know that you were already picking the color
|
| The star wanderers left without saying goodbye
|
| And in our eyes the torches went out.
|
| And on the swamps of consciousness
|
| Already emitted a specific smell.
|
| Already moving, already breathing
|
| And they were not afraid of the spells of magicians.
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| I scratch you again with golden combs,
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| The hydrocephalus are back for you!
|
| And on the periphery of the soul
|
| Gathered someone a gang to kidnap you.
|
| On large all-terrain vehicles
|
| Land reclamators set off on a journey.
|
| They made their way through breaks and glitches,
|
| Their wind roses on their wrists dimmed,
|
| And their all-terrain vehicles rusted on the road,
|
| But the columns kept moving and the headlights were on
|
| To Colombian tubers
|
| To Colombian tubers
|
| To scratch them again with golden combs,
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| Colombian tubers
|
| The hydrocephalus are back for you! |