Yo Me Bajo En Atocha
Con su boina calada, con sus guantes de seda,
su sirena varada, sus fiestas de guardar,
su vuelva usted mañana, su salvese quien pueda,.
Su partidita de mus, su fulanita de tal.
Con su todo es ahora, con su nada es eterno,
con su rap y su chotis, con su okupa y su skin,
aunque muera el verano y tenga prisa el invierno
la primavera sabe que la espero en Madrid.
Con su otoño Velázquez, con su Torre Picasso,
su santo y su torero, su Atleti, su Borbón,
sus gordas de Botero, sus hoteles de paso,
Su taleguito de hash, sus abuelitos al sol.
Con su hoguera de nieve, su verbena y su duelo,
su dieciocho de julio, su catorce de abril.
A mitad de camino entre el infierno y el cielo...
yo me bajo en Atocha, yo me quedo en Madrid.
Aunque la noche delire como un pájaro en llamas,
aunque no dé a la gloria la Puerta de Alcalá,
aunque la maja desnuda cobre quince y la cama,
aunque la maja vestida no se deje besar,
"Pasarelas Cibeles", cárcel de Yeserías,
Puente de los Franceses, tascas de Chamberí,
ya no sueña aquel niño que soñó que escribía,
Corazón de María, no me dejes así...
Corte de los Milagros, Virgen de la Almudena,
chabolas de uralita, Palacio de Cristal,
con su "no pasarán" con sus "vivan las caenas",
su cementerio civil, su banda municipal.
He llorado en Venecia,
me he perdido en Manhattan,
he crecido en La Habana, he sido un paria en París,
México me atormenta, Buenos Aires me mata,
pero siempre hay un tren
que desemboca en Madrid.
Pero siempre hay un niño que envejece en Madrid,
pero siempre hay un coche que derrapa en Madrid,
pero siempre hay un fuego
que se enciende en Madrid,
pero siempre hay un barco que naufraga en Madrid,
pero siempre hay un sueño
que despierta en Madrid,
pero siempre hay un vuelo de regreso a Madrid.
I get off at Atocha
With his beret pulled down, with his silk gloves,
its stranded mermaid, its save parties,
If you come back tomorrow, every man for himself.
His little game of mus, his so-and-so.
With its everything is now, with its nothing it is eternal,
with his rap and his chotis, with his squatter and his skin,
although summer dies and winter is in a hurry
Spring knows that I am waiting for it in Madrid.
With his autumn Velázquez, with his Picasso Tower,
his saint and his bullfighter, his Atleti, his Bourbon,
its fat girls from Botero, its passing hotels,
His little bag of hash, his grandparents in the sun.
With its snow bonfire, its festival and its mourning,
his eighteenth of July, his fourteenth of April.
Halfway between hell and heaven...
I get off in Atocha, I stay in Madrid.
Although the night raves like a bird on fire,
although the Puerta de Alcalá does not give glory,
although the naked maja earns fifteen and the bed,
although the dressed maja does not allow herself to be kissed,
"Pasarelas Cibeles", Yeserías prison,
French Bridge, Chamberí taverns,
That child who dreamed that he wrote no longer dreams,
Heart of Mary, don't leave me like this...
Court of Miracles, Virgin of Almudena,
uralite shanties, Crystal Palace,
with their "they will not pass" with their "long live the caenas",
its civil cemetery, its municipal band.
I have cried in Venice,
I've gotten lost in Manhattan,
I have grown up in Havana, I have been an outcast in Paris,
Mexico torments me, Buenos Aires kills me,
but there is always a train
that ends in Madrid.
But there is always a child who grows old in Madrid,
but there is always a car that skids in Madrid,
but there is always a fire
that lights up in Madrid,
but there is always a ship that sinks in Madrid,
but there is always a dream
that wakes up in Madrid,
but there is always a flight back to Madrid.