Antonio Machado

Cantares...

You will sing. . . Everything happens and everything is, but our thing is to pass, spend making paths, paths over the sea. I never chased glory nor leave in memory of men my song; I love the subtle worlds, weightless and gentle, like soap foam. I like to see them paint sun and scarlet, fly under the blue sky, tremble suddenly and break. . . I never chased glory. Walker, are your footprints the road and nothing else; walker, there is no path, path is made by walking. When you walk, you make your way and looking back you see the path that never must be stepped on again. walker there is no way but wakes in the sea… Some time ago in that place where today the forests are dressed in thorns a poet's voice was heard shouting "Walker there is no way, the path is made by walking…" Blow by blow, verse by verse… He died the poet away from home. Dust from a neighboring country covers him. As they walked away they saw him cry. "Walker there is no way, the path is made by walking…" Blow by blow, verse by verse… When the finch can not sing. When the poet is a pilgrim, when it is useless to pray. "Walker there is no way, the path is made by walking…" Blow by blow, verse by verse. Todo pasa y todo queda, pero lo nuestro es pasar, pasar haciendo caminos, caminos sobre el mar. Nunca persequí la gloria, ni dejar en la memoria de los hombres mi canción; yo amo los mundos sutiles, ingrávidos y gentiles, como pompas de jabón. Me gusta verlos pintarse de sol y grana, volar bajo el cielo azul, temblar súbitamente y quebrarse… Nunca perseguí la gloria. Caminante, son tus huellas el camino y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace camino y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante no hay camino sino estelas en la mar… Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar "Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar…" Golpe a golpe, verso a verso… Murió el poeta lejos del hogar. Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino. Al alejarse le vieron llorar. "Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar…" Golpe a golpe, verso a verso… Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar. Cuando el poeta es un peregrino, cuando de nada nos sirve rezar. "Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar…" Golpe a golpe, verso a verso.