by Antonio Machado
Everything passes and everything stays,
but our thing is to pass,
pass by making paths,
paths over the sea.
I never chased after the glory
nor leave in memory
of men my song;
I love the subtle worlds
weightless and gentle,
like soap bubbles.
I like to see them paint themselves
of sun and scarlet,
Fly under the blue sky,
Shake suddenly and break …
I never chased after the glory.
Walker, your footprints
are the road and nothing else;
walker, there is no path,
the path is made by walking.
When you walk, you make a path
And when you look back
you see the path that will never
be stepped on again.
Walker there is no path
but wakes in the sea…
Some time ago in that place
where today the forests are dressed in thorns
a poet’s voice was heard shouting
“Walker there is no path,
the path is made by walking … “
Blow by blow, verse by verse …
Last updated November 29, 2022