“Planta” feels like a psychedelic postcard from the jungle of your own mind. Gustavo Cerati paints himself as a living plant: sap running through his body, branches that wander, a voice made of leaves. He confesses that he has drifted too far into the clouds, chasing possibilities until faith ran thin and old wounds reopened. The shimmering images—“oro de Acapulco,” “mi voz vegetal”—invite us to picture sunlight filtering through foliage while an inner dialogue unfolds.
Behind the vivid greenery lies a simple message: growth needs roots. Floating “in the air,” the narrator realizes he is “nothing but less than what [he] could be,” so he craves to “have his feet tied down” and reconnect with the earth. Love, creativity, and identity all require grounding; otherwise they become just another risky game of chance. By the end, his “vegetal love” is both a plea and a promise: nurture what makes you flourish, anchor yourself in something real, and let your own sap—your life force—guide the way.