Cantares (dedicado a Antonio Machado) - Joan Manuel Serrat

Oct 3rd, 2012 | By Editor | Category: Poetry

Everything passes and everything stays,
But our fate is to pass,
to pass making a path,
a path upon the sea.

I never chased after glory,
nor sought to leave my song
in the memory of men;
I love the weightless, gentle
and subtle worlds -
worlds like soap bubbles.

I like to see them get painted over
by sun and grain, to fly
under the blue skies, to tremble
suddenly and burst.

I never chased after glory.

Wanderer, only your own footsteps
make the path, nothing more;
Wanderer, there is no path,
the path is made through the wandering.

By wandering a path is made
and, in turning to look back,
one sees a trail that one never
will ever set foot again.

Wanderer, there is no path,
only wakes upon the sea.

Some time ago in that place
where today the forests
adorn themselves with thorns
The voice of a poet once cry out:
“Wanderer, there is no path,
a path is made through wandering…”

Blow by blow, verse by verse.

The poet died far from home;
the dust of a neighboring land covers him
As he grew distant, some heard him weep.

“Wanderer, there is no path,
a path is made through wandering;

Blow by blow, verse by verse.”

When the goldfinch cannot sing,
when the poet becomes a pilgrim,
when praying is of no use,
Wanderer, there is no path,
a path is made through wandering -

Blow by blow, verse by verse.

Original:

Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo camino,
camino sobre la mar.

Nunca perseguí la gloria,
sin dejar en la memoria
de los hombres mi canción;
yo amo a 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
dónde 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 de su hogar -
lo cubre el polvo de un país vecino;
al alejarse, le oyeron llorar…

Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar -

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso…

Cuándo el jilguero no pede cantar,
cuándo el poeta es un peregrino,
cuándo de nada nos sirve rezar.
“Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…”

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso…

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