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Oh Qué Será |
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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