Текст и перевод песни Joan Manuel Serrat - 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

Singing Verses

Everything passes, and everything remains,
But what we have is passing.
Passing, making roads,
Roads upon the sea.
I never pursued glory,
Or left memories,
Of men, in my song.
I love the subtle worlds,
Weightless and noble,
Like soap bubbles.
I like to see them painted,
With sun and vermilion, flying,
Beneath the blue sky, trembling,
Suddenly, breaking.
I never pursued the glory,
Traveller, your traces are roads, and nothing more.
Traveller, there is no road, a road is made by walking.
By walking, a road is made, and on looking back,
You will see a path that will never again be taken.
Traveller, there is no road, only a wake in the sea.
Some time ago, in that place,
Where today the forests wear thorns,
The voice of a poet was heard shouting:
“Traveller, there is no road,”
“A road is made by walking.”
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse,
The poet died far from home,
Covered in the dust of a neighboring country,
As he left, they saw him cry:
“Traveller, there is no road,”
“A road is made by walking.”
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse,
When the goldfinch cannot sing,
When the poet is a pilgrim,
When nothing helps us to pray:
“Traveller, there is no road,”
“A road is made by walking.”
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse,
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse,
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse,