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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?




Last Night As I Was Sleeping


Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a spring was breaking

out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,

Oh water, are you coming to me,

water of a new life

that I have never drunk?


Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart.

And the golden bees

were making white combs

and sweet honey

from my old failures.


Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a fiery sun was giving

light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt

warmth as from a hearth,

and sun because it gave light

and brought tears to my eyes.


Last night as I slept,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that it was God I had

here inside my heart.




Cancione a Guiomar

De mar a mar, entre los dos la guerra

más honda que la mar. En mi parterre,

miro a la mar que el horizonte cierra.

Tú asomada, Guiomar, a un finisterre,


miras hacia otra mar, la mar de España

que Camoens cantara, tenebrosa.

Acaso a ti mi ausencia te acompaña.

A mí me duele tu recuerdo, diosa.


La guerra dio al amor el tajo fuerte.

Y es la total angustia de la muerte,

con la sombra infecunda de la llama


y la soñada miel de amor tardío,

y la flor imposible de la rama

que ha sentido del hacha el corte frío.



Song to Guimar

From sea to sea, between the two the war

Deeper than the sea. In my parterre,

I look out to the sea bound by the horizon.

You look out, Guiomar, to a Finisterre,


You look towards another sea, the sea of Spain

Which Camoens sang, dark.

Perhaps my absence stays with you.

Your memory hurts me, goddess.


The war gave love its strong edge.

And it is the total anguish of death,

With the ragged shadow of the flame


And the dreamy honey of late love,

And the impossible flower of the branch

Which has felt the cold cut of the ax.