Amara

1

Hey,
Brown Head
As ugly as the sun
As fast as my little snail
With a stench as stale as Jasmine
See the valleys are plain
And the meadows are in ruins
Even the marshlands have become deserts
Hear the sound of metals grinding against the rock
Beckoning on you to fall
How did pride become your song
With a humble beginning?
The storm is coming
The wind is fierce
The fire would break
Hay would fall
Seasons would change.
Birds would even love to dance.
Humans would even want to fly.
Mountains would walk.
It is the only way to get out of your mystery of woes
And just like the Spanish people would say;
Cómo han caido los poderosos
(Cómo ha caido el poderoso)