Estopa — Ahora song lyrics and translation
The page contains the lyrics and English translation of the song "Ahora" by Estopa.
Lyrics
Ahora, ya no escribo cuentos,
ni tacho los das del calendario,
ni sue±o que estoy preso,
a la sombra de un jardn vallado.
Ya no paseo por el mercado
ni escucho lo que hablan unos viejos,
en un banco sentados,
nunca mЎs me sentare con ellos.
Ahora me paso todas las tardes pensando,
que el tel (c)fono no arde, que no suena,
que no interrumpe la cena, que no arde,
que me dice que me largue, que se muere,
sЎlvame tu si puedes.
No me susurran ya las fotografas
se apagaron los gritos de su silencio,
de su melancola, ya no mЎs
ya no quiero mЎs sue±os.
Ahora me paso todas las tardes, pensando,
que el tel (c)fono no arde, que no suena,
que no interrumpe la cena, que no arde,
que me dice que me largue, que se muere,
sЎlvame tu si puedes.
Que no suena,
que no interrumpe la cena, que no arde,
que me dice que me largue,
Y es que por no salir todas las puertas cierro
y tengo las ma±anas sіlo para mi,
se olvidaron de mi, estos del infierno.
Y cuanto vale el precio?
No paran de llover las nubes del fracaso,
disparan las pistolas de la soledad,
ya no salgo en la gua ni en la calle de olvidados.
Gritar© un poco mЎs, sangrara mi garganta,
la pared con mil huellas de mi loca cabeza,
ahora no puedes entrar estoy ordenando mi casa
estoy ordenando mi casa,
estoy ordenando mi casa,
estoy ordenando mi casa.
Yo gritare un poco mЎs, sangrara mi garganta,
la pared con mil huellas de mi loca cabeza,
ahora no puedes entrar estoy ordenando mi casa.
Lyrics translation
Now, I don't write stories anymore,
I don't even give them the calendar.,
I don't even think I'm in jail.,
in the shade of a fenced garden.
I don't walk around the market anymore.
I don't even hear what old people are talking about.,
on a bench sitting,
I'll never sit with them.
Now I spend every afternoon thinking,
that the phone (C) phono does not burn, that does not ring,
that does not interrupt dinner, that does not burn,
that tells me to leave, that he dies,
sYlvame, you can.
The photographers don't whisper to me anymore.
the cries of his silence were extinguished,
of his melancholy, no longer mYs
I don't want my dreams anymore.
Now I spend every afternoon, thinking,
that the phone (C) phono does not burn, that does not ring,
that does not interrupt dinner, that does not burn,
that tells me to leave, that he dies,
sYlvame, you can.
That doesn't sound,
that does not interrupt dinner, that does not burn,
that tells me to get out of here.,
And is that by not leaving all the doors I close
and I have the silo machines for me,
they forgot about me, these from hell.
And how much is the price?
The clouds of failure keep raining,
they shoot the guns of loneliness,
I don't go out in the water or on the street of forgetfulness anymore.
Scream© a little mYs, my throat will bleed,
the wall with a thousand prints of my crazy head,
now you can't come in. I'm tidying up my house.
I'm tidying up my house.,
I'm tidying up my house.,
I'm tidying up my house.
I'll scream a little mYs, bleed my throat,
the wall with a thousand prints of my crazy head,
now you can't come in. I'm tidying up my house.