Caminante No Hay Camino
Todo pasa y todo queda
Pero lo nuestro es pasar
Pasar haciendo camino
Camino sobre la mar
Nunca perseguí la gloria
Y 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 del camino y nada más
Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar
Al andar se hace el 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 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 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 quiere 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
Cuando el jilguero no quiere 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
Cuando el jilguero no quiere 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
Antonio Machado, Cantares
Traveler, There is No Path
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 in the memory
Of men my song
I love subtle worlds
Weightless and gentle
Like soap bubbles
I like to see them, paint themselves with Sun and crimson fly
Under the blue sky tremble suddenly and break
I never pursued glory
Traveler, your footprints are the path and nothing more
Traveler, there is no path, the path is made by walking
By walking, the path is made
And when looking back
You see the path that will never be stepped on again
Traveler, there is no path, only wakes in the sea
Some time ago in that place
Where today the forests dress in thorn
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 goldfinch does not 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
Blow by blow, verse by verse
When the goldfinch does not 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
Blow by blow, verse by verse
When the goldfinch does not 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
Blow by blow, verse by verse
Antonio Machado, Songs
Escrita por: Antonio Machado