Joaquin Sabina — Yo Me Bajo En Atocha song lyrics and translation
The page contains the lyrics and English translation of the song "Yo Me Bajo En Atocha" by Joaquin Sabina.
Lyrics
Con su boina calada, con sus guantes de seda,
su sirena varada, sus fiestas de guardar,
su vuelva usted mañana, su sálvese 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 déa la gloria la Puerta de Alcalá,
aunque la maja desnuda cobre quince y la cama,
aunque la maja vestida no se deje besar.
Pasarela Cibeles, cárcel de Yeserías,
Puente de los Franceses, tascas de Chamberí,
ya no sueña aquel niño que soñóque 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.
Lyrics translation
With his beret open, with his silk gloves,
your stranded siren, your parties to keep,
your come back tomorrow, your save yourself who can,
his little mus party, his little whore like that.
With his everything is now, with his Nothing is eternal,
with his rap and his chotis, with his squat and his skin,
even if the summer dies and the winter is in a hurry
spring knows I'm waiting in Madrid.
With its Autumn Velázquez, with its Picasso Tower,
his Saint and his bullfighter, his Atleti, his bourbon,
its fat Botero, its hotels in paso,
His hash thatch, his grandparents in the sun.
With his snow Bonfire, his vervain and his mourning,
its eighteenth of July, its fourteenth of April.
Halfway between hell and heaven…
I get off in Atocha, I stay in Madrid.
Even though the night rages like a burning bird,
even if it does not give glory to the gate of Alcala,
although the naked maja covers fifteen and the bed,
even if the dressed maja doesn't let herself be kissed.
Catwalk Cibeles, prison of Plastererias,
Bridge of the French, tascas De Chamberí,
no longer dreams that child who dreamed that he wrote,
Heart of Mary, Don't leave me like this…
Corte de los Milagros, Virgen de la Almudena,
uralite slums, Crystal Palace,
with their "will not pass" with their " live the caenas»,
his civil cemetery, his Municipal Band.
I cried in Venice,
I got lost in Manhattan.,
I grew up in Havana, I was an outcast in Paris,
Mexico torments me, Buenos Aires kills me,
but there's always a train
that flows into Madrid.
But there's always an aging child in Madrid,
but there's always a car that skids in Madrid,
but there's always a fire
that lights up in Madrid,
but there's always a ship sinking in Madrid,
but there's always a dream
waking up in Madrid,
but there's always a flight back to Madrid.