Текст и перевод песни Miguel Rios - Cantares

Cantares

Todo pasa y todo queda
Pero lo nuestro es pasar
Pasar haciendo camino,
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.
Y 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 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.
Vl alejarse le vieron llorar
"Caminante, no hay camino,
Se hace camino al andar"

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso

Cuando el jilguero no quiere 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

Songs

Everything passes and everything stays
But our time is to pass
Passing on the path,
Paths upon the sea

I never pursued glory
Or to leave my song in the memory
Of men.

I love the subtle worlds
Weightless and gentle
Like soap bubbles

I like to watch them paint
With sun and crimson, fly
Under the blue sky, tremble
Suddenly and break

I never pursued glory

Wanderer, your footprints
Are the path and nothing more.
Wanderer, there is no path;
You make the path as you walk.
And as you walk, you make the path,
And when you look back,
You see the path that you will never walk again
Wanderer, there is no path
Only trails in the sea."

Some time ago in that place
Where forests are dressed in thorns
The voice of a poet was heard to cry:
Wanderer, there is no path
You make the path as you walk"

Beat by beat, verse by verse

The poet died far from home
The dust of a neighboring country covers him.
They saw him weep as he walked away
Wanderer, there is no path,
You make the path as you walk"

Beat by beat, verse by verse

When the goldfinch does not want to sing;
When the poet is a pilgrim.
When it does us no good to pray:
Wanderer, there is no path,
You make the path as you walk"

Beat by beat, verse by verse
Beat by beat, verse by verse
Beat by beat, verse by verse