You will Sing...

Everything happens and everything is,
but our thing is to pass,
spend making paths,
paths over the sea.

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

I like to see them paint
sun and scarlet, fly
under the blue sky, tremble
suddenly and break...

I never chased glory.

Walker, are your footprints
the road and nothing else;
walker, there is no path,
path is made by walking.

When you walk, you make your way
and looking back
you see the path that never
must be stepped on again.

walker there is no way
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 way,
the path is made by walking…"

Blow by blow, verse by verse…

He died the poet away from home.
Dust from a neighboring country covers him.
As they walked away they saw him cry.
"Walker there is no way,
the path is made by walking…"

Blow by blow, verse by verse…

When the finch can not sing.
When the poet is a pilgrim,
when it is useless to pray.
"Walker there is no way,
the path is made by walking…"

Blow by blow, verse by verse.