Текст и перевод песни Raphael - El fusil del poeta es una rosa

El fusil del poeta es una rosa

Mientras jugo la guerra de los niÑos
Con un fisl hecho de cualquier cosa
Quizas de arroz, quien sabe de una rosa
Envejecio de amor cargando furias
Y se enrolo a morir donde antes quiso
Simplemente sucede como dijo

Ese dia el fusil era una rosa
Rastrillada en el aire, peligrosa
Ese dia era el sol mas sol al rio
Mas rio el rio y mas la guerra era
Y mas la muerte desde la ribera
Contra el leve fusil
Que era ese dia
Solamente una rosa

Ese dia era el sol mas sol al rio
Mas rio el rio y mas la guerra era
Y mas la muerte desde la ribera
Y una granada el verso detonado
Abierta esta la rosa colorada
En la margen del rio enraizada
Quedo al rocio que
Llovio de un rio aquel
Hundido rio en sus venas rotas
Abierta esta, abierta como entonces
Al hombro del poeta

Abierta esta, abierta como entonces
Al hombro del poeta
Va ganando la guerra con su rosa
La boca desde el rio
Sus pajaros, sus arboles
Y es que jugo la guerra de los hombres
Haciendose un fusil
De cada cosa que no fuera un fusil
Ese dia se armaba de una rosa
El fusil del poeta solo es una rosa

The Poet's Rifle is a Rose

As I play at children's war
With a rifle made of anything
Perhaps of rice, who knows of a rose
I age with love carrying furies
And enlist to die where before I wanted
It simply happens as he said

That day the rifle was a rose
Raked in the air, dangerous
That day the sun was more sunshine to the river
More river the river and more the war was
And more the death from the bank
Against the slight rifle
That was that day
Only a rose

That day the sun was more sunshine to the river
More river the river and more the war was
And more the death from the bank
And a hand grenade the verse exploded
Open is the reddened rose
Rooted in the river bank
That was left to the dew that
Rained from a river, that
Sunk river in its broken veins
Open it is, open as then
On the poet's shoulder

Open it is, open as then
On the poet's shoulder
He is winning the war with his rose
The mouth from the river
His birds, his trees
And that he played the war of men
Making himself a rifle
From each thing that wasn't a rifle
That day he armed himself with a rose
The poet's rifle is only a rose