El bajón [English translation]

When I left the workplace on monday,

I wondered, where do I go? what do I do?

And as I was just with the payment

of two months ago that came delayed,

I said "I'll go to the cinema", because if not,

The low, the low, I'd have the low.

The low, the low, I'd have the low. The low.

When the screen light died

and was reborn the real size

of the real world that was beside me.

Oh! I'm surrounded. I'm cornered.

I thought and thought of the green places

of the film. I was having a trip.

I was thinking, making believe. Because if not,

The low, the low, I'd have the low.

The low, the low, I'd have the low. The low.

I came upon while reaching the bus stop

with a guy who was a childhood friend.

"How do you do? How you're going?"

and we were walking, we're hanging on.

And the talking is over. Because if not,

The low, the low, I'd have the low.

The low, the low, I'd have the low. The low.

When I got home (and it's a saying

because in fact, it's more a niche),

I turned on the TV and if I didn't do it,

I would see it coming to me

the great dark stain, depression,

The low, the low, I call it the low.

The low, the low, I call it the low. The low.

A while after, tired and saturated,

I disconnected the junk devil

and I grabbed my old guitar.

I want a song to come out of my soul.

A song that says what I feel.

My suffering turned into a thought.

A song that transmits desolation.

The song of the low, the low of the song.

The song of the low, the low of the song. The low.

I tried and tried with notes, with chords.

I developed words, phrases, verses.

But it was all very lazy and dispersed.

It was a babble, more than sad, ugly.

So I threw the guitar because if not,

The low, the low, I'd be attacked by the low.

The low, the low, I'd be swalloed by the low. The low.

And this song that now I'm singing

I maybe better finish it.

Because I feel burning in my head

the thick smoke of this great sadness.

Sticky, heavy, oversweet, static and viscous sadness.

The pale, boys. The pale.

The low, the low, I call it the low.

The low, the low, here comes the low.

The low, the low, here buries me the low.

The low, the low, it looks like a coffin.

• Artist:Leo Masliah
• Album:Recital Especial