Lyrics of 'Perdidos' by Rudy Wiedmaier

Los autos pasan sin sentido,
Atrapando el sol que refleja los cisnes extraviados
Y los amigos ya no escuchan esa música
Que será mi compañía eterna.

Entonces subo al escenario
Con los mismos que hoy andan dispersos,
Somos niños soñando con nostalgia
Un sueño repetido.

El tango vuela desde el tercer piso
Interrumpiendo la misa del domingo
Y marca el ritmo de este niño
Que un día vio a piazzola.

Es el antiguo pulso
Que no es capricho ni virtud,
Desatado con la angustia de los amores fugitivos
Redimiéndose en la quinta cuerda de la guitarra.

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