June 4: Palas de Rei

Antonio Machado

Walker there is no path, the path is made when walking

Everything passes and everything stays,

but our fate is to pass,

to pass making paths,

paths on the sea.

I never looked for glory,

nor to leave in the memory

of mankind my song;

I love subtle worlds,

lightnessful and gentile,

like soap bubbles.

I like to watch them painting

of sun and garnet, to fly

under the blue sky, tremble

suddenly and break…

I never looked for glory.

Walker, your treads are

the path and nothing more;

walker, there is no path,

the path is made when walking.

When walking the path is made

and when looking back

you see the path that never

has to be walked again.

Walker, there is no path,

but trails in the sea…

Some time ago in that place

where woods dress with hawthorns today

the voice of a poet was heard, screaming

‘Walker, there is no path,

the path is made when walking…’

Stroke by stroke, verse by verse…

The poet died far away from home.

He’s covered by dust of a neighboring

country.

When going away, they saw him crying.

‘Walker, there is no path,

the path is made when walking…’

Stroke by stroke, verse by verse…

When the goldfinch cannot sing.

When the poet is a pilgrim,

when praying has no use.

‘Walker, there is no path,

the path is made when walking…’

Stroke by stroke, verse by verse.