Steven F. Freeman

Cantares (caminante, no hay camino)

page created: 01/15/2012
page last modified: 05/10/2014

Cantares
(Caminante, no hay camino)

[No Path But Your Own]


"Cantares" escrito por Antonio Machado. Interpretado por Joan Miguel Serrat.

Poem by Antonio Machado. Music composed and sung by Joan Miguel Serrat. Translation by S. Freeman, 2000/2011, Alajuela, Costa Rica

 

click here for mp3

Soap_Bubbles

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 jabon.

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 boques 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 jiguero 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 (3x).

 

All things pass, yet all remains
but you and I must die
and the paths that we've carved with our time
here on earth, the sea will soon wash away.

I’ve never pursued glory,
nor sought immortality --
that's not why I write my songs.
Rather, I love worlds that are
subtle, gentle and light, like 
soap bubbles unshackled by gravity.

I like to watch them paint their colors,
framed by sun and grains,
floating under skies of blue, then
trembling and suddenly bursting …

I’ve never pursued glory

Your path is what your footprints
make; there is no other path.
There is no road to follow; you
make one -- your own -- as you walk.

As you walk, you make your way
through the world and on looking back
you’ll see a path that can never
be returned or walked again

There is no road to follow,
just fleeting ripples on the sea.

After a while in that quiet place
where the forest is covered by pines
the voice of a poet was heard to cry out,
“Traveler: there is no road to follow;
you make your own way as you walk.”

Blow by blow, verse by verse.

The poet died a long way from home
covered in dust of a neighboring land.
As he was leaving, he was seen in tears.
“Traveler: there is no road to follow;
you make your own way as you walk.”

Blow by blow, verse by verse.

When the bird can no longer sing
when the poet is but a passerby
when one’s prayers cannot be of use:
“Traveller: there is no road to follow;
you make your own way as you walk.”

Blow by blow, verse by verse (3x).

Web City Pages