Yo Me Bajo En 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.