Текст и перевод песни Rozalén - Los Artistas

Los Artistas

Rita, ya desde pequeña
Quiso ser cantante como su mama

Fede cose marionetas
Sueña con historias que quiere mostrar
Lía, ama la poesía
Pasa todo el día escribiendo sin parar
Óscar, busca personajes para interpretar

Y no tenían para vivir
Y tuvieron que partir
Lejos de aquí
Por-por-por-porque en su país
Quieres seres tristes
Incapaces de bailar y reír
Pensar y sentir

Nadie encuentra ya locales
No hay facilidades
Ni caches para crear

Si actúan en la calle
Si piensan muy alto
Hasta les pueden multar

Se reparten beneficios
Los intermediarios, un mal IVA cultural
Siempre son las mismas caras
Las que en las pantallas aparecerán

Pero ya sí que canta Rita
Y de tela no de piel y hueso son las marionetas
Y la vida es un teatro callejero
Que se extiende a cada esquina a cada empleo

Cada vez más creativos
Son cada vez más productivos
Y escritos versos de poetas en las servilletas

Y los bares cierran tarde
Esculturas son las piedra
Y los niños juegan con lo que imagina su cabeza
Porque el arte es por amor
Y del alma se alimenta

Y no tenían para vivir
Y tuvieron que partir
Lejos de aquí
Por-por-por-porque en mi país
Quieres seres tristes
Incapaces de bailar y reír
Pensar y sentir

The Artists

Rita, as a young girl,
wanted to be a singer like her mom

Fede makes puppets,
Dreams of stories that he wants to show
Lía, loves poetry,
Spends all day writing without stopping
Óscar, searches for characters to play

And they didn't have a place to live,
And they had to leave,
Far from here
Be-be-be-because in their country,
They want sad people,
Unable to dance and laugh,
Think and feel

Nobody finds venues anymore,
There are no facilities,
Nor cash to create with

If they perform in the street,
If they think too loudly,
They can even get fined

They distribute benefits,
The middlemen, a bad cultural VAT
They are always the same faces,
Those that will appear on the screens

But now Rita does sing,
And the puppets aren't made of flesh and bone,
And life is a street theater,
That extends to every corner, every job

More and more creative,
They are more and more productive,
And verses written by poets on napkins

And the bars close late,
Stones are sculptures,
And children play with what their minds imagine,
Because art is for love
And it is fed by the soul

And they didn't have a place to live,
And they had to leave,
Far from here
Be-be-be-because in my country,
They want sad people,
Unable to dance and laugh,
To think and feel.