Cantares
Todo pasa y todo queda
Pero lo nuestro es pasar
Pasar haciendo camino
Camino sobre la mar
Nunca perseguí la gloria
Y dejar la memoria
De los hombres mi canción
Yo amo los mundos sutiles
Ungravidos y gentiles
Como pompas de jabón
Me gusta verlos pintarse
De azul y grana al volar
Bajo el cielo azul temblar
Súbitamente y quebrarse
Nunca perseguí la gloria
Caminante son tus huellas
Del camino y nada mas
Al andar se hace el camino
Y al volver la vista atras
Se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar
Caminante no hay camino
Se hace camino al andar
Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
Donde los bosques se visten de espino
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 pais vecino
Al alejarse le vieron llorar
Caminante no hay camino
Se hace camino al andar
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso
Cuando el jilgero no quiere cantar
Cuando el poeta es un peregrino
Cuando de nada nos sirve rezar
Caminante no hay camino
Se hace camino al andar
Y golpe a golpe, verso a verso (x3)
Songs
Everything passes and everything remains
But what is ours is to pass
To pass making a path
A path over the sea
I never pursued glory
And to leave the memory
Of men my song
I love subtle worlds
Weightless and gentle
Like soap bubbles
I like to see them paint themselves
Blue and crimson as they fly
Trembling under the blue sky
Suddenly and breaking
I never pursued glory
Traveler, your footprints are
The path and nothing more
As you walk, you make the path
And upon looking back
You see the path that will never be stepped on again
Traveler, there is no path
The path is made by walking
Some time ago in that place
Where the forests dress in thorns
The voice of a poet was heard shouting
Traveler, there is no path
The path is made by walking
Blow by blow, verse by verse
The poet died far from home
Covered by the dust of a neighboring country
As he walked away, they saw him cry
Traveler, there is no path
The path is made by walking
Blow by blow, verse by verse
When the nightingale doesn't want to sing
When the poet is a pilgrim
When praying is of no use
Traveler, there is no path
The path is made by walking
And blow by blow, verse by verse (x3)