Cantares. Antonio Machado (1875-1939)
Cantares
Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre el 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.
Cantares
All happens and everything stays,
but ours it is to walk,
to walk making ways,
ways on the sea.
Never did I search for glory,
or to leave in the memory
of men my song;
I love subtle worlds,
weightless and gentile,
like soap bubbles.
I like to see them paint themselves
of sun and purple dusk, to fly
under the blue sky, to shake
suddenly and to become broken…
I never pursued glory.
Traveler, your tracks are
the way and nothing else;
traveler, there is no way,
the walking becomes the path.
When walking the path becomes
and when returning the gaze back
the footpath is seen marking what never
will be walked again.
Traveler there is no way
but wakes in the sea…
Once upon a time, in that place
where the forests get dressed of hawthorns
the voice of a poet was heard shout
“Traveler there is no way,
the walking the way becomes… “
Blow to blow, verse to verse…
The poet far from his home died.
Covered by dust from a neighbor country
When emigrating they saw him cry.
“Traveler there is no way,
walking becomes the path… “
Blow to blow, verse to verse…
When the finch cannot sing.
When the poet is a traveler,
When praying serves us no good
“Traveler there is no way,
the walking the way becomes… “
Blow to blow, verse to verse.
(translation from spanishpoems.blogspot.com.es)
outstanding, solemn beauty
Thanks, John!!
joli jeu d’ombre sur la premiere
Merci beaucoup!!
Wonderful – the photographs are stately and beautifully captured and they fit so well with the poem. Great post, Santi!
This is great post… poem and photographs… Fascinated me. Thank you dear Santi, love, nia
Loved the images and words a like. thank you for sharing.