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MACHADO, Antonio



Caminante no hay camino

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...

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.


Wanderer, there is no path

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





Y ha de morir contigo el mundo mago

Y ha de morir contigo el mundo mago
donde guarda el recuerdo
los hálitos más puros de la vida,

la blanca sombra del amor primero,

la voz que fue a tu corazón, la mano
que tú querías retener en sueños,
y todos los amores
que llegaron al alma, al hondo cielo?

¿Y ha de morir contigo el mundo tuyo,
la vieja vida en orden tuyo y nuevo?
¿Los yunques y crisoles de tu alma
trabajan para el polvo y para el viento?


And is that magical world to die with you

And is that magical world to die with you

where memory goes guarding

life’s purest breaths

first love’s white shadow,

the voice that entered your heart, the hand

that you had wished to hold in dream,

and all things loved

that touched the soul, the depths of sky?

And is that world of yours to die with you,

the old life you renewed and set in order?

Have the anvils and crucibles of your spirit

laboured here only for dust and wind?