Lyrics of Cantares - Miguel Rios

Cantares (original)

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

(translation)

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 way
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