"I believe in a lot of things I haven't seen, and all of you, too, I know. The existence of something palpated can't be denied, no matter how ethereal it is. There's not a need to exhibit a proof of decency, of that which is so true, The only gesture is believe or not, Sometimes, even crying while believing, It's about an incomplete subject because it lacks an answer, An answer, that maybe some of you, might give it, Is an technicolor topic to make something useful of love, For all of us, amen, Oh, what it'd be, it'd be? That they'd be sighing around the bedrooms, that is heard whispering in ballad verses, that's making crazy combined questions, that's in the minds, and mouths, that's been ascending around fed up holes, That they're yelling in the bodega, And they yell in the marker, what thing is that? It's the nature, it'd be, what it'd be? That it doesn't have certainty, and it never gives you, That it doesn't have concept, and will never have, That it doesn't have size Oh, what it'd be, it'd be? That lives in the ideas of those lovers, That the most delirious lovers sing, And that the drunken prophets swear, It's in the pilgrimage of the mutilated It's in the fantasy of the depressed It's in the day to day of the prostitutes, And all of the bandits and disabled, In all of the sense, what it'd be, it'd be? That id doesn't have decency, and will never have, That it doesn't have censorship, and will never have, And it lacks sense, Oh, what'd it be, what it'd be? That no warning could evade, That not even the prisoners can dare, That every path will need to cross, That ever sign will consecrate, And all the children will investigate, and all destinies will find, And the eternal father that never went there, To the men, once again, they'll bless, Turning off hell it's final flame, Because it doesn't have a point trying again, Due to lack of judgment, Oh, What it'd be? Oh, What it'd be? Oh, what it'd be? That swears the prophet, sings the poet, And they're yelling in the model, Oh, what it'd be? Oh, what it'd be? That wakes me up at night, And it makes me tremble, it makes me cry, Oh, what it'd be? It's ghost, we're ghosts, I feel the door knock three times, Oh what it'd be? Oh, what it'd be? They're sighing around the bedrooms, and whispering in ballad verses, Start listening, Oh, what it'd be? It doesn't have size, and it's nature, It's in the mouth and in the head, oh, what could it be? Every child will investigate it, And no warning can evade it, Oh, what could it be? In every bell it will chime, And the one who's sleeping will awaken, Oh, what could it be? It's ghost, we're ghost, I feel the door knock three times, Oh what could it be? Oh, what could it be? It's ghost, it's ghost, it's ghost, it's ghost, I hear the door knock, Ay, the door knock, Oh, what it'd be? The bandit, the disabled live it, the prostitutes, the depressed, The reverend, and the firefighter, the president, the shoemaker And the teachers, and the butcher, The citizen and the foreigner, The judge and the showbiz, too, The nurse, the steersman, The saint, the Marxist, The grocer, and the masochist, Oh what could it be?"
