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Antonio Machado (1875-1939) Wanderer (Caminante) All things pass and stay forever, yet we pass eternally, drawing

footpaths in our passing, footpaths on the restless sea. Never have I aimed for glory, nor to leave my song, my story in the people's heart and mind. I have loved my worlds appeasing, subtly fleeting, gently pleasing, all with bubbles of a kind. How I like to watch them topping, glowing out of o ev'ry hue, soaring up toward the blue, then abruptly trembling, popping. Never have I aimed for glory... Wanderer, it is your footprints winding down, and nothing more; wanderer, no roads lie waiting, roads you make as you explore. Step by step your road is charted, and behind your turning head lies complete the path you've trodden, not again for you to tread. Wanderer, there are no roadways, only wakes upon the sea... So long ago now, in times of yore, here where the woods now are clad in brambles, clamored a poet, ever so sore: "Wanderer, there are no roadways, roads you make as you explore..." Verse by verse, blow after blow... Dead is the poet, far from this shore. The clay of strange lands is where he's resting. As he was leaving, teardrops he bore. "Wanderer, there are no roadways, roads you make as you explore..." Verse by verse, blow after blow... When even finches tweedle no more. When ev'ry poet is but a pilgrim. When no one listens as you implore. "Wanderer, there are no roadways, roads you make as you explore..." Verse by verse, blow after blow.

===================================== Translation/Traduccin: Paul Abucean =====================================