Spanish songs in Andalucia,
the shooting sites in the days of ’39.
Oh, please leave, the VENTANA open.
Federico Lorca is dead and gone:，
bullet holes in the cemetery walls,
the black cars of the Guardia Civil.
Spanish bombs on the Costa Rica -，
I’m flying in a DC-10 tonight.
Spanish bombs; yo te quiero infinito.
Yo te quiero, oh mi corazón.
Spanish bombs; yo te quiero infinito.
Yo te quiero, oh mi corazón.
Spanish weeks in my disco casino;
the freedom fighters died upon the hill.
They sang the red flag,
they wore the black one -，
but after they died, it was Mockingbird Hill.
Back home, the buses went up in flashes,
the Irish tomb was drenched in blood.
Spanish bombs shatter the hotels.
My señorita’s rose was nipped in the bud.
Spanish bombs; yo te quiero infinito.
Yo te quiero, oh mi corazón.
Spanish bombs; yo te quiero infinito.
Yo te quiero, oh mi corazón.
The hillsides ring with “free the people” -，
or can I hear the echo from the days of ’39，
with trenches full of poets,
the ragged army, fixing bayonets to fight the other line?
Spanish bombs rock the province;
I’m hearing music from another time.
Spanish bombs on the Costa Brava;
I’m flying in on a DC-10 tonight.
Spanish bombs; yo te quiero infinito.
Yo te quiero, oh mi corazón.
Spanish bombs; yo te quiero infinito.
Yo te quiero, oh mi corazón,
oh mi corazón,
oh mi corazón。
