Family!
the burials of my poor people
They are a true spectacle,
feeling you!
At funerals
from my poor poor people
the flowers are made of paper,
the tears are real.
Well, as in others
Funerals of life
Where the crying is a lie
and a very natural flower.
What more perfume than the tear felt
that identifies the suffering of the people
because the flowers already wither tomorrow
and the cemetery is an indifferent forgetting.
My poor people always return to the holy field
sowing a weeping flower with love and will
the poppies of true love
They are the greatest tribute of my people in the outskirts.
Chorus:
In the funerals of my poor poor people
when he cries it is because he really feels.
Here there is no indifference
when a friend is leaving us
is the meaning of love,
but we give it with integrity
I ask, I ask you
it can be worth a million
when you die you cry with falsehood,
lies, lies of that crybaby.
It's a show
of tremendous love
the burials of my poor people
He laughs and cries like a child.
~
On the night of the wake
between coffee and cookies
of what the deceased lived
but we tell nice things.
But that's why I'm staying
with my poor poor people
simple paper flower
and a lot of real love.
and on this last trip
holy field road
to that soul friend
rumbero! we accompany him singing.
The burials of the rich
it is resolved by a will
but that of my poor people,
hears! waste of feeling.
Only among all we can make this a better place :)