Paroles et traduction Raphael - Cantares

Cantares

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 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.

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso,
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso,
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso.

Cantares

All things pass and all remain,
But what's ours is to pass,
Passing, making pathways,
Pathways over the sea.

I have never pursued glory,
Nor sought to leave in memory
Of men my song.

I love the subtle worlds,
Weightless and gentle
Like soap bubbles.
I like to see them painted
With sunlight and carmine, to fly,
Under the blue sky, to tremble
Suddenly, and to shatter...
I have never pursued glory.

Traveler, your footprints are,
The path and nothing more.
Traveler, there is no path,
The path is made by walking.
By walking, the path is made
And when you look back
You see the path that you
Will never tread again.
Traveler, there is no path,
Only 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 to cry out:

"Traveler, there is no path,
The path is made by walking!"
Blow by blow, verse by verse.
The poet died far from home,
Covered by the dust of a neighboring country.
As he left, he was seen to weep.
Traveler, there is no path,
The path is made by walking.
Blow by blow, verse by verse.
When the goldfinch cannot sing,
When the poet is a pilgrim,
When it is useless to pray...
Traveler, there is no path,
The path is made by walking.

Blow by blow, verse by verse,
Blow by blow, verse by verse,
Blow by blow, verse by verse.