El amor,
the blood that coats these hands.
The scent of gunsmoke
is whispering over the sands.
The tears that have dried,
steam, as they touch the ground.
The metal is cold and heavy,
under the red-hot burning sun.
To know is to have power,
to have power is to know,
like a vulture round they circle, hand in hand,
you watch them go.
To give up is to sacrifice,
and the sacrifice is for love,
and having just to pay that price,
leaves me with only a rolletta in my glove.