Album:
Dedicado a Antonio Machado, poeta (1969)
Testi originali
Spagnolo
Traduzione
Inglese
Cantares
Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre la mar.
Nunca perseguí 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.
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.
Singings
Everything passes and everything stays,
but our thing is passing,
passing making paths,
paths over the sea.
I never pursued glory,
nor leaving in the memory
of men my song;
I love subtle worlds,
gravityless and gentile
like soap bubbles.
I like to watch them paint themselves
of sun and garnet, fly
under the blue sky, tremble
all of a sudden and crumble.
Walker, your footprints are
the path, and nothing more;
walker, there is no path,
the path is made while walking.
By walking a path is made,
And by returning your sight back
you see the path that is never
to be step on again.
Walker, there is no path,
but trails on the sea.
Some time ago, in that place
where today the forests dress themselves of Pine,
the voice of a poet shouting was heard:
Walker, there is no path,
the path is made while walking,
stroke by stroke , verse by verse.
The poet died far from his home,
The dust of a neighboring country covers him.
While distancing himself they saw him crying,
walker, there is no path,
the path is made while walking,
stroke by stroke , verse by verse.
When the goldfinch cannot sing,
when the poet is a pilgrim,
when praying gives us no use,
walker, there is no path,
the path is made by walking,
stroke by stroke , verse by verse.
Song details
Translation details
Give a shoutout to NM
Commenti 1
Due to merging of duplicate entries the source lyrics might have been updated. Please review your translation.