Shouts In the hands I do not hide nothing My pockets are empty My impulses are controlled But my habits are obsessive the hands that touch me are frozen the colloquies that I have I am decoration I seem that he does not have alternative In this life of dead-end Seems that does not have Necessary alternative of a form more active D and the days pass F#m and us so we are accustomed D and in thus seeing F#m to them the one That already in does not interest them (A-C#m-F#m-E) Has years imprisoned in this labyrinth I only counts on my instincts If I not to think about accomodating me Perhaps obtain to saciar me Therefore already I cried out to skies and already I whispered the sea I only go to put down mine weapons