The wild wind of the port blows, winter blows
and the old ghosts whisper, whisper stories
there is a rumor that a tunnel goes under the water somewhere
but I must I admit that I have never seen it
Sisial y´mór, a ship without an anchor
The crackling rain is clattering, clattering our faces
and we want to have a glimpse on the scene
trying to remember an old museum
but a snob none the wiser about what was there first
Sisal of the sea, a ship without an anchor
and the purple sky
scissors of the sea

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