Alè De Mil-cent
Fuig el cilenci de tots els carrers,
boires pudentes, alé de mil-cent
Tornada:
Cop de gas rodes cridant
llauren tot l'asfalt.
Sentir al mar l'aire cremat,
fums de soledat.
Es tornen boges les dones del món,
quan senten la fressa que fan els motors
d'aquelles grans motos que estripen els cervells,
mentre fan carreres, espantant nes i vells.
Genets de cuiro, estampes de reis,
botes lluentes i grassa als cabells.
Tornada:
Amb ulls inflexibles i el cos tope tensat,
juagan-se la vida per a voler ser al davant.
Tornada:
Són mil metres rectes que hán de correr a tot gas,
després, si no frenen, la caiguda és mortal.
T'esperen les roques, com sirenes del mar.
Qui serà tant home de voler-les besar?.
Breath of a Thousand
Flee the silence from every street,
putrid fog, breath of a thousand.
Chorus:
Rev the engines, wheels screaming,
carving up the asphalt.
Feel the sea, the burnt air,
fumes of loneliness.
The women of the world go crazy,
when they hear the noise of the engines.
From those big bikes that tear through brains,
while racing, scaring kids and old folks.
Leather riders, prints of kings,
shiny boots and grease in their hair.
Chorus:
With unyielding eyes and bodies all tensed,
they're gambling their lives to be in front.
Chorus:
It's a thousand meters straight that they have to run full throttle,
then, if they don't brake, the fall is deadly.
Rocks are waiting for you, like sirens of the sea.
Who will be man enough to want to kiss them?