Tuesday, the twelfth
you see, I am far
from the evening news
from the price of gold per barrel
wings are growing on me
I will wait until tomorrow
Novacruz
or even Tamboril
who knows?

in the sky of August
a cunning star
plots my course
to the far end of Brazil

and I move away
but I know well
that you accompany me
in this hunt for destiny

I'm going to Bang-Bang
to dry in the wind
my wet heart
from its melting dreams
I'll end up in Bang-Bang
find the time
to wait for a guide
who is not of this world
who knows?

Friday the thirteenth
everything seems so far away
the emptiness, the unease
the why of exile
nothing weighs on me anymore
my soul is a garden
of ebony and aloe
a jungle, a slum

and I move away
to finally know
all that we gain
by being only on the way

I'm going to Bang-Bang
to dry in the wind
my wet heart
from its melting dreams
I'll end up in Bang-Bang
find the time
to wait for a guide
who is not of this world
who knows?

I know that nothing heals
the wounds of instinct
my land of plenty
it is between two trains
I move forward and I move away
sometimes I remember
a tender companion
become guardian angel

I'm going to Bang-Bang
to dry in the wind
my wet heart
from its melting dreams
I'll end up in Bang-Bang
find the time
to wait for a guide
who is not of this world
who knows?

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