To be a Rasta girl, me to walk along the streets without importing the clothes or the hairdo for me, having thousands of Rastas who accompany me on the side. Green, red and yellow, to feel every color as if it was my breath, to live for them and to feel since they you fill, oh baby do not stop having this laugh in the face calmed by the smoke of the marijuana, sing my life to me every morning. I me think of tattooing your lips in my heart and of dying it of each of these colors.
And they all want to be a few Rastas, and think that smoking already they are the best of the world, to receive documents of everything and then come to say to me that it was mistaken by all that.
Cuando el recuerdo es tu vida, dejas de querer vivir para empezar a recordar.
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