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Maluma - 11 PM Превод текста

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11 увече

11 увече, још увек се не јавља
1 ујутру, још увек нема одговора
2 ујутру, каже ми да је спремна
3 ујутру, имам један предлог за тебе
 
Како да те уразумим
Да са мном ти изгледаш боље
Да у мом ауту ти изгледаш боље
Соба мирише на Кристијан Диор
Ти си много лепа, да би плакала због њега
Не заслужује да будеш верна
Ни такође твоју кожу
 
Душо
 
Како да те уразумим
Да са мном ти изгледаш боље
Да у мом ауту ти изгледаш боље
Соба мирише на Кристијан Диор
Ти си много лепа, да би плакала због њега
Не заслужује да будеш верна
Ни такође твоју кожу
 
Њему нећеш недостајати
Такође неће мислити о теби
Каже да је заузет са важнијим стварима
Облак који не допушта да се види бриљантно сунце
Не дозволи му да те угаси
Не дозволи му да те угаси
 
Како да те уразумим
Да са мном ти изгледаш боље
Да у мом ауту ти изгледаш боље
Соба мирише на Кристијан Диор
Ти си много лепа, да би плакала због њега
Не заслужује да будеш верна
Ни такође твоју кожу
 
11 увече, још увек се не јавља
1 ујутру, још увек нема одговора
2 ујутру, каже ми да је спремна
3 ујутру, имам један предлог за тебе
 
Како да те уразумим
Да са мном ти изгледаш боље
Да у мом ауту ти изгледаш боље
Соба мирише на Кристијан Диор
Ти си много лепа, да би плакала због њега
Не заслужује да будеш верна
Ни такође твоју кожу
 
Душо
 
Како да те уразумим
Да са мном ти изгледаш боље
Да у мом ауту ти изгледаш боље
Соба мирише на Кристијан Диор
Ти си много лепа, да би плакала због њега
Не заслужује да будеш верна
Ни такође твоју кожу
 
Малума душо
Душо
Душо
Душо
 

Још текстова песама из овог уметника: Maluma


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Више лирицс транслатионс

Other people, they know how to do it

If I try to crack a joke, it's not funny
Everyone stares at me, as if I was insane
If I say 'fatass!', everyone says 'idiot!'
But then Hasse Alfredsson comes along and says the same thing
And then it's hilarious
 
If I wiggle my toes, they shake their heads
If I scratch my butt, then I'm insane
If I say 'Boston butt', well that makes me crazy
But then Povel Ramel comes along and says the very same thing
And then it's hilarious
 
It's so frustrating, all these roles we play
What does not work for me to say, works for him
It's a darn shame, these roles
If I say 'I've got a hard-on!', then they will take me away
But if Hasse Alfredsson says the same, then they will laugh themselves to death.
 
If I try to sing something beautiful then they say
'shut up you fucking scum!'
If I turn it up, then they will teach me right
But then Roger Whitaker comes along and sings the same thing, and then it's as beautiful as ever
 
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Always

One morning, I opened my eyes
And wished I was dead
I want someone to kill me
In this loud silence
I live to understand the world
But the world has never understood me, why
No, that half is missing
It’s trying to hurt me
 
I miss me miss me baby
I miss me miss me baby
I wish me I wish me baby
Wish I could choose me
 
Why is it that I’m being so earnest
Yet it’s not working out
Always
Always
Always
Always
Always (I lost my all ways)
Always (I lost my all ways)
Always (I lost my all ways)
Always (I lost my all ways)
Always
 
If I ever meet God, I would tell him this
That life is coffee that I never ordered
I would grab him by the collar and tell him
Death is an americano you can’t refill
Are you sure that you’re alive
Then, let’s prove it somehow
When I exhale, I see my breath
On the window, there’s condensation
 
You are dead
(You are dead)
You are dad, but you are dead
Dead dad (dead dad) you don’t listen to me
Dad please listen to me
 
Why is it that I’m being so earnest
Yet it’s not working out
Always
Always
Always
Always
Always (I lost my all ways)
Always (I lost my all ways)
Always (I lost my all ways)
Always (I lost my all ways)
Always
 
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His Voice Will Not Be Silenced

In the stadium in Chile,
Honor was put in prison
By the jackals in uniform,
Servants of the Yankee oppressor.
 
Amid the confusion,
A voice was soon heard.
It was the voice of the poet,
The singer of the revolution.
 
Victor Jara was this voice,
The voice of fields and sweat,
Who sang to his brothers,
Filling them with bravery.
 
A vulture appeared
In a shining uniform
With stripes on the lapel,
And sent for the voice,
His hands, and his guitar.
 
Pushing him, they brought him
To the bloodthirsty animal,
Who, with his axe in his hand,
Cut off the man's fingers,
Believing that in this way,
He would silence his song.
 
Later hits rained down,
Insults and gobs of spit,
And the raptors...good God!
Took out their anger
On the poet-singer
Who suffered, having collapsed.
 
Reduced to a wreck,
He shakily sat up
With his mutilated fingers
And his bleeding heart,
While that vulture of an officer,
Pushing him violently, said,
'Sing! Now sing!
If you still have some bravery left in you!'
 
Silence flooded the stadium
As they saw the singer bleeding
And heard his roaring voice:
 
'Let's see, comrades,
Let's make the man happy!'
And a chorus of many voices
Began to haughtily sing
A song of a free Chile,
In its Popular Unity.
 
The vicious murderers
Were unable to handle
The man who, even in his death throes
They could not vanquish completely.
And the servile shrapnel,
With its deadly sting,
Tore through guts and gore,
Stealing the last breath
From the poet, the man, the singer,
An exemplar of bravery
Who, in front of his people,
Died defending his nation.
 
Victor Jara was that voice,
The voice of fields and sweat,
Who sang to his brothers,
Filling them with bravery.