By Antonio Machado (26 July 1875 ”“ 22 February 1939)
Everything goes and everything stays
but our fate is to pass
to pass making a path as we go,
paths over the sea,
I never pursued glory,
or to leave on the memory
of the men,this my song:
I love the subtle worlds,
weightless and gentle
like soap bubbles.
I like to see them paint themselves on sun and crimson,
fly under a blue sky
shudder suddenly, and break…
I never pursued glory.
Traveler , your footprints are the path, and nothing else.
Traveler, there is no path. A path is made by walking.
A path is made by walking,
and in looking back one sees
the trodden road that never
will be set foot on again.
Traveler, there is no path, but wakes on the sea…
Some time ago on that place
where today the woods dress in brambles
the voice of a poet was heard shouting
¨Traveler, there is no path. A path is made by walking”.
Blow by blow, verse by verse…
The poet died far from home
and is covered by the dust of a neighboring country.
As he went away, he could be heard crying,
“Traveler, there is no path. A path is made by walking”.
Blow by blow, verse by verse…
When the robin can no longer sing,
when the poet is a pilgrim,
when praying is no more of use.
Traveler, there is no path. A path is made by walking.
Blow by blow, verse by verse (Bis, x3)
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