120 Phrases by Joaquín Sabina – About LOVE, LIFE and FRIENDSHIP

There was a future in the hungry pupils of mature men.

A good reputation should be dropped at the foot of the bed.

The death of a friend hurts me more than what haunts me.

That being brave is not so expensive, that being a coward is not worth it.

And life went on, as things go on that don’t make much sense.

It’s not your business, you’ll tell me, that’s it, but recognize that it’s hard to accept… because there is no human being who will lend a hand to someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

Judas showed me that not everyone who kisses loves…

I only told you half a life backwards, which is not the same as half a lie.

Let the truths have no complexes.

These lips that taste like goodbye, like vinegar in the wounds, like a seasonal handkerchief.

The truth triumphs by itself, the lie always needs complicity.

I told myself that life is not a valley of tears and I went out into the street, like an explorer.

Don’t give me vitamins, no, give me fire and rock and roll.

The muses do not charge royalties. I do.

The best promises are those that do not have to be kept.

How small is the light of the headlights of those who dream of freedom.

I trade my wrinkles for your acne.

A lie in two words: I can’t.

And sometimes I tend to lay my head on the shoulder of the moon and talk to it about that untimely lover called loneliness.

How difficult it is to try to escape unscathed from this magic in which we have become trapped.

Losing manners: if you have to step on glass, let it be bohemian, heart.

When the soul needs a body to caress…

This fish no longer dies for your mouth, this crazy man leaves with another crazy woman, these eyes no longer cry for you.

Singing is shooting against oblivion, living without you is sleeping at the station.

When I sleep without you, I dream of you.

And the sun is a tear in an eye that does not know how to cry.

You will know that I leave everything if you tell me come.

When the city paints its neon lips, you will get on my cardboard horse… your days can be stolen from me, not your nights.

And the blood galloping through my veins and a cloud of sand inside my heart, and this streak of love without appetite…

Ambiguous hours that mix the drunk and the early riser.

There are women dragging suitcases loaded with rain.

They paint love blind and with wings. Blind so as not to see obstacles and with wings to save them.

It depends on you and on me that between the two of us it remains yesterday night, today morning.

I’m dying to tell you that I love you. And I don’t want destiny to come and take revenge on me.

I had no religion other than a woman’s body.

And I returned to the curse of the drawer without its clothes, to the doom of cocktail bars…

There is not a single real love story that has a happy ending. If it is love, it will have no end. And if you have it, you won’t be happy.

I wanted to tell him the truth, no matter how bitter it was. Tell her that the universe was wider than her hips. I painted a real world for her and not a rosy one, but she preferred to listen to white lies.

Yesterday you didn’t love me, today I don’t love you, tomorrow we won’t have anyone to love.

And if you want I can also be your station and your train. Your evil and your good. Your bread and your wine. Your sin, your god, your murderer.

I prefer war with you, to winter without you.

Every day has a minute when I close my eyes and enjoy missing you.

And die with you if you kill yourself and kill me with you if you die, because love when it does not die kills, because loves that kill never die.

Hang on to whoever loves you, don’t die except for love…

The murderer knows more about love than the poet.

There is no nostalgia worse than longing for what never ever happened.

I don’t want Sunday afternoons, I don’t want swings in the garden, what I want, cowardly heart, is for you to die for me.

In matters of love the best always loses.

There is not a single real love story that has a happy ending. If it is love, it will have no end. And if you have it, you won’t be happy.

And yet, when I sleep without you, I dream of you.

The kisses I lost because I didn’t know how to say I need you.

Now that without knowing we have known, to love ourselves, as we should, without loving ourselves yet.

Love is the name of the game in which a pair of blind people play at hurting each other.

I gave him my nights and my bread, my anguish, my laughter, in exchange for his kisses and his haste.

You know better than I that only the kisses you haven’t given penetrate even the bones.

The good thing about years is that they heal wounds, the bad thing about kisses is that they create addiction.

Even the soles of my shoes miss you.

I don’t like investing in chimeras, your hips have brought me here and not your heart.

The atrocious thing is not wanting to know who you are, water gone, scorched earth.

Often the most urgent lips are in no hurry two kisses later.

It is not me, nor you, nor anyone, they are the miserable fingers that wind my watch.

I loved her so much that it took me nineteen days and five hundred nights to learn to forget her.

And how to flee when there are no islands left to shipwreck.

Ours lasted as long as two ice fish in a whiskey on the rocks.

He was so poor that he had no more than money.

You can be as pretty as you want, but tell me… if the world were blind, how many people would you impress?

Life is so short and the job of living is so difficult that when you start to learn it you have to die.

The gyms are full, the bookstores are still empty.

It has cost me enough work to commit my sins to waste them in vain repentance.

The monarchy is a democratic deficit that we suffer by inheritance.

They will accuse you of having fun in the land of the serious, of being free in the land of prisoners, of being alive in the land of the dead.

Men cheat more than women; women, better.

There is no life more luxurious than living without a phone and a car.

We were all, at one time, love passengers on trains that were going nowhere.

If what you want is to be one hundred years old, don’t live like I live.

Death is just luck with a changed letter.

I’m a better smoker than a singer.

If the cathedrals were tired of being ruins of God’s failure.

When death comes to visit me, let them take me to the south where I was born. There’s no room for anyone here.

I am not addicted to opera dizos; They cultivate the muscle of the vocal cords and seem to me more like athletes than artists.

Verses are a way to turn ashes into wood and rubble into castles.

He was one of those individuals who remain silent to avoid making noise, a regular loser of so many battles that oblivion wins.

Girls no longer want to be princesses, and boys like to chase the sea in a glass of gin.

Perhaps I look for an encounter that will brighten my day and I find nothing but doors that deny what they hide.

Stranger was that summer, when it didn’t stop snowing…

I don’t judge my friends, I just love them.

Dead friendship tastes the same as failure and we both like the verb to fail.

I will fight until the last second and my epitaph will be: I do not agree.

How difficult it is to try to escape unscathed from this magic in which we have become trapped.

In my house nothing is forbidden, but don’t fall in love.

I am not balanced or calm: I lead a crazy life.

This goodbye does not mask a see you later, this never does not hide a hopefully, this ash does not play with fire, this blind man does not look back.

Don’t be too clever, don’t invest in Christ, don’t act stupid.

Before…