Juan Sevilla tocava the guitar abans perdre-ho tot. Per ell, the lluna penja fanals of records in a

Juan Sevilla tocava the guitar abans perdre-ho tot. Per ell, the lluna penja fanals of records in a Sínia that extreu the pain pou l'llum the last day. És lluny home amb tots els deutes marcats in every wrinkle. Allà a noia waiting in a pati, in goes a bona nova. Els Però somnis sols són segresten plors that day. I loves Llegendes juliol els are from temps de l'esperança. Find a feina lluny of fantasy dels seus joves anys. Sou routine i look i com s'instal la tardor the home, i becomes GROCS aquells antiga alegria de l'records. Each fulla that the temps l'arbre deixa the finestra, each pel seu que passa ombra costat nits d'Insomni them, sent the non-res i resa month to prop a l'àngel dels poor. I s'han pansit flors ranging planting them to gar de l'esperança. I loves Llegendes juliol els are from temps de l'esperança. Juan Sevilla played guitar before losing were everything. For him, the moon hangs lanterns memories on a Ferris wheel that draws the well of pain the last light of day. It is away from home, with all debts marked every wrinkle. were There, a girl waiting in a courtyard, in vain, good news. But dreams are just crying that sequester day. And loves July are legends season of hope. Looking for work away from the fantasy of his younger were years. Salary and routine and watch as autumn were settles in and becomes yellow were house the memories were of the old joy. Each leaf of the tree while leaving the window in each side passing through its shadow sleepless nights, nothing feels closer, and pray the angel of the poor. And have dried flowers planted in the garden of hope. And loves July are legends season of hope. credits