Cantares - David DeMaria

Todo pasa y todo queda

Pero lo nuestro es pasar,

Pasar haciendo caminos,

Caminos sobre la mar.

Nunca persegui la gloria

Ni dejar en la memoria

De los hombres mi cancion;

Yo amo los mundos sutiles,

Ingravidos y gentiles

Como pompas de jabon.

Me gusta verlos pintarse

Se sol y grana, volar

Bajo el cielo azul, temblar

Subitamente y quebrarse…

Nunca persegui la gloria.

Caminante son tus huellas

El camino y nada mas;

Caminante, no hay camino

Se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino

Y al volver la vista atras

Se ve la senda que nunca

Se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino

Sino estelas en la mar…

Hace algun tiempo en ese lugar

Donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos

Se oyo la voz de un poeta gritar

«Caminante no hay camino,

Se hace camino al andar…»

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso…

Murio el poeta lejos del hogar.

Le cubre el polvo de un pais 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

Everything happens and everything is

But ours is to pass,

spend making paths,

Roads 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 themselves

Be 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 way

The path is made by walking.

When walking, the path is made

And when looking back

You see the path that never

It has to 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

The voice of a poet 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.

He covers the dust of a neighboring country.

As he walked away, they saw him cry.

"Walker, there is no path,

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 path,

The path is made by walking…”

Blow by blow, verse by verse