Oh Qué Será
(Willie Colón)

Yo creo en muchas cosas que no he visto, y ustedes también, lo sé.
No se puede negar la existencia de algo palpado por mas etereo que sea.
No hace falta exhibir una prueba de decencia de aquello que es tan verdadero.
El unico gesto es creer o no.
Algunas veces hasta creer llorando.
Se trata de un tema incompleto porque le falta respuesta;
respuesta que alguno de ustedes, quizas, le pueda dar.

Es un tema en technicolor para hacer algo util del amor.
Para todos nosotros, amén.

Oh, qué sera, qué sera
que anda suspirando por las alcobas,
que se oye susurrando en versos de trova,
que anda combinandonos preguntas locas,
que anda en las cabezas, anda en las bocas,
que anda ascendiendo por hartos huecos,
que estan hablando alto en la bodega,
y grita en el mercado, qué cosa es esa?
Es la naturaleza, sera, que sera,
que no tiene certeza y nunca te da,
que no tiene concepto, y nunca tendra,
que no tiene tamaño.

Oh, qué sera, qué sera
que vive en las ideas de esos amantes,
que cantan los poetas mas delirantes,
que juran los profetas emborrachados,
esta en la romeria de los mutilados,
esta en la fantasia de los infelices,
esta en el dia a dia de las meretrices,
en todos los bandidos y desvalidos,
En todos sus sentidos, sera qué sera,
que no tiene decencia y nunca tendra,
que no tiene censura y nunca tendra,
y le falta sentido.

Oh, qué sera, qué sera
que ningun aviso podra evitar,
que tampoco los presos puedan desafiar,
que todos los caminos tendran que cruzar,
donde todos los signos van a consagrar,
y todos los niñitos a investigar,
y todos los destinos van a encontrar,
y el mismo Padre eterno que nunca fue alla,
al hombre nuevamente lo bendeciran
apagando al infierno su llama final,
porque no tiene caso volver a rodar
por la falta de juicio.

Ohhh, qué sera
Ohhh, qué sera
Ohhh, qué sera
(Ohhh, qué sera)
Que jura el profeta, canta el poeta, y estan gritando en la maqueta,
Oh, qué sera
(Ohhh, qué sera)
Que me despierta por la noche, y me hace temblar, me hace llorar,
(Ohhh, qué sera)
Son fantasmas, son los fantasmas, siento la puerta tocar tres veces,
Oh, qué sera
(Ohhh, qué sera)
Van suspirando por las alcobas y susurrando versos de trova,
ponte a escuchar!

(Ohhh, qué sera)
No tiene tamaño, y es naturaleza, anda en las bocas y en las cabezas,
(Ohhh, qué sera)
Todos los niñitos lo investigaran y ningun aviso lo podra evitar,
(Ohhh, qué sera)
En toda campana repicara, y el que esta dormido despertara,
(Ohhh, qué sera)
Son fantasmas, son los fantasmas, siento la puerta tocar tres veces,
Oh qué sera!!!

(Ohhh, qué sera)
Son fantasmas, son fantasmas, son fantasmas, son fantasmas
oigo la puerta tocar, ay, la puerta tocar
(Ohhh, qué sera)
Lo vive el bandido, el desvalido,
las meretrices, los infelices,
el reverendo y el bombero,
el presidente, el zapatero,
y las maestras y el carpintero,
la ciudadana y el extranjero,
también el juez y el farandulero,
la enfermera, el timonero,
el santero, el marxista,
el bodeguero y el masoquista
Oh, qué sera!!!
 

Oh, What Is It? *
(Willie Colón)

I believe in may things that I've not seen, and you too, I know
The existence of something that can be touched can't be denied no matter how ethereal it may be
It's not necessary to exhibit a proof of decency of something so true
The only gesture is to believe or not
Sometimes even to believe crying
It's an incomplete question because there's no answer
Answer that some of you, maybe, can give

It's a technicolour question to make something useful out of love
For all of us, amen

Oh, what is it? what is it?
That walks in whispers around the bedroom
That can be heard murmuring in trova* verses
That walks around combing crazy questions
That walks around in our heads, walks around in our mouths
That walks up sick empty spaces
That's talking out loud in the winecellar
And shouts in the market, what is it?
It's nature, that's what it'll be
That has no certainty and never gives you any
That has no concept and never will have any
That has no size

Oh, what is it? what is it?
That lives in the ideas of those lovers
That the most delirious poets sing
That the drunk prophets swear
It's in the pilgrimage of the mutilated
It's in the fantasy of the unhappy
It's in the day to day of the prostitutes
In all the bandits and the defenceless
In all the senses, it'll be what it'll be
That has no decency and never will have any
That has no censorship and never will have any
And is lacking sense

Oh, what is it? what is it?
That no warning will ever be able to avoid
That nor can prisoners challenge
That all the roads will have to cross
Where all the signs go to consecrate
And all the little children to investigate
And all the destinies go to find
And the very same eternal Father who never went there
Will again bless man
Putting out the final flame of hell
Because it has no reason to continue
Because of a lack of trials

Ohhh, what is it?
Ohhh, what is it?
Ohhh, what is it?
Ohhh, what is it?
That the prophet swears, the poet sings, and they're shouting in the demo
Ohhh, what is it?
Ohhh, what is it?
That awakens me in the night and makes me tremble, makes me cry
Ohhh, what is it?
They're ghosts, they're the ghosts, I feel the door being knocked three times
Ohhh, what is it?
Ohhh, what is it?
They whisper around the bedrooms and murmur trova verses
Listen!

Ohhh, what is it?
It has no size, and it's nature, it walks around the mouth and in the head
Ohhh, what is it?
All the little children will investigate it and no warning will be able to avoid it
Ohhh, what is it?
In all bells toll, and whoever is asleep will awaken
Ohhh, what is it?
They're ghosts, they're the ghosts, I feel the door being knocked three times
Ohhh, what is it?

Ohhh, what is it?
They're ghosts, they're the ghosts, they're the ghosts, they're the ghosts
I hear the door being knocked
Ohhh, what is it?
The bandit experiences it, the defenceless
The prostitutes, the unhappy
The reverend and the fireman
The president, the shoemaker
And the teachers and the carpenter
The citizen and the foreigner
Also the judge and the celebrity
The nurse, the rudder-holder
The saint, the marxist
The wine merchant and the masochist
Ohhh, what is it?
 

Lyrics Translated by Alan Smith Robertson, Song Translator

Editor's note: * Although será is the future form of the verb ser (to be), in Spanish the future is often used to express doubt to a much more greater extent than in English. * Trova is a form of singing whose origins go back to the singing of medieval Jesters.

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