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  • Antonio Machado

    Antonio Machado

    Caminante, no hay camino → English translation→ English

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Caminante, no hay camino

Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre el mar.
 
Nunca persequí 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.
 
Translation

Wanderer

All things pass and stay forever,
yet we pass eternally,
drawing footpaths in our passing,
footpaths on the restless sea.
 
Never have I aimed for glory,
nor endeavored that my story
be for Memory destined.
I have loved my worlds appeasing,
subtly fleeting, gently pleasing,
all with bubbles of a kind.
 
How I like to watch them topping,
glowing out of o ev'ry hue,
soaring up toward the blue,
then abruptly trembling, popping.
 
Never have I aimed for glory...
 
Wanderer, it is your footprints
winding down, and nothing more;
wanderer, no roads lie waiting,
roads you make as you explore.
 
Step by step your road is charted,
and behind your turning head
lies the path that you have trodden,
not again for you to tread.
 
Wanderer, there are no roadways,
only wakes upon the sea...
 
So long ago now, in times of yore,
here where the woods now are clad in brambles,
clamored a poet, ever so sore:
'Wanderer, there are no roadways,
roads you make as you explore...'
 
Verse by verse, blow after blow...
 
Gone is the poet, far from this shore.
The clay of strange lands is where he's resting.
As he was leaving, teardrops he bore.
'Wanderer, there are no roadways,
roads you make as you explore...'
 
Verse by verse, blow after blow...
 
When even finches tweedle no more.
When ev'ry poet is but a pilgrim.
When all our prayers heavens ignore.
'Wanderer, there are no roadways,
roads you make as you explore...'
 
Verse by verse, blow after blow.
 
(1907)
 
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