Paroles et traduction Joan Manuel Serrat - Cantares - En Directo

Cantares - En Directo

Todo pasa y todo queda,
Pero lo nuestro es pasar,
Pasar haciendo caminos,
Caminos sobre el 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 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
Donde hoy 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 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 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..."

Cantares - Live

Everything passes and everything remains,
But our destiny is to pass through,
Pass through making paths,
Paths over the sea.
I've never sought glory,
Or to leave my song in the memory
Of men;
I love subtle worlds,
Weightless and gracious,
Like soap bubbles.
I like to watch them paint themselves
With sun and crimson, fly
Under the blue sky, tremble
Suddenly and shatter...
I've never sought glory.
Wayfarer, your footprints
Are the path and nothing else;
Wayfarer, there is no path,
The path is made by walking.
By walking, the path is made
And looking back
The trail that has never
Been trodden again can be seen.
Wayfarer, there is no path
Only trails on the sea...
Some time ago in that place
Where today forests are clad in thorns
The voice of a poet was heard to cry:
"Wayfarer, there is no path,
The path is made by walking..."
Step by step, verse by verse...
The poet died far from home.
The dust of a neighboring country covers him.
As he walked away, they saw him weep.
"Wayfarer, there is no path,
The path is made by walking..."
Step by step, verse by verse...
When the goldfinch cannot sing.
When the poet is a pilgrim,
When prayer is of no avail.
"Wayfarer, there is no path,
The path is made by walking..."