(Tan Joven y Tan Viejo)
by Joaquín Sabina
The first thing I wanted was to leave far far away.
In the sticker album of resignation,
We stuck the children who hated mirrors
Gloves of Rita Hayworth,
Streets of New York.
As soon as I saw an eye winking the life at me,
I asked it to dispose of me at will.
She gave me the keys to the forbidden city.
Everything I have, which is nothing, I gave it to her.
So I grew up flying and flew so fast
that even my own shadow lost sight of me.
To erase my tracks, I shredded my shirt
I mistook neon lights with stars.
I cheated at poker, I let my friends down,
On the bench of a park I slept like a dormouse.
For saying what I think without thinking what I say
I got more than one kiss (and more than one slap).
What I know about forgetting, I learned it from the moon.
What I know about sin, I had to find it,
like a thief under the skirt of some girl,
whose name I don’t want to remember now.
So, for now, no farewells, lads,
I fall asleep at the funerals of my generation,
I invent myself every night, I still get drunk,
So young and so old, like a rolling stone.