Description
It smells of wine and wet cement - the kind that still bears traces of bare feet. The music here is not for shop windows or album covers, but for the courtyard echo that clings to balconies and rolls through the streets. It has the audacity of a drunken song and the pride of a stubborn dance: half a step of a gentleman, half a glance of a rebel.
It seems as if rumba itself flows through the veins - hot, noisy, alive. It mixes in the body with fatigue, with joy, with some kind of eternal longing. And even when the words get mixed up, it still comes out as a confession: uneven, but real. There is no need for order here - it is enough for the heart to beat to the rhythm and the heels to kick up dust from the old concrete.
Lyrics and translation
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