What a co-incidence Andy,
I think in the translation from Machado the sense is of path opening in the doing, and looking back there is a narrower 'track' that although never the same again might ease a journey of another. It is 'solitary' though not a rippling of a band journeying in 'pilgrimage' or a nomadic way of living.
I recently was citing this, as Stafford Beer ( cybernetician) was attracted to Machado too. It appears
In a song by Joan Manuel Serrat ( in Spanish not in his first language, Catalan)
http://youtu.be/Lj-W6D2LSlo
and with intonations much later in life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6IGhwFDn-I
He seems to emphasise verse -by-verse more than
blow-by blow in this later moving rendition.
My translation of the song:
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.
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.
Singings
Everything passes and everything stays,
but our thing is passing,
passing making paths,
paths over the sea.
I never pursued glory,
nor to to leave in memory
of man my song;
I love subtle worlds,
gravityless and graceful
like soap bubbles.
I like to watch them paint themselves
of sun and scarlet, fly
under the blue sky, tremble
all of a sudden and burst.
Walker, your footprints are
the path, and nothing more;
walker, there is no path,
the path is made while walking.
By walking a path is made,
and when you look back
you see the track
that will never be stepped on again.
Walker, there is no path,
but trails on the sea.
Some time ago, in that place
where today the forests dress themselves in thorns ,
the voice of a poet was heard shouting:
Walker, there is no path,
the path is made while walking,
stroke by stroke , verse by verse.
The poet died far from his home,
The dust of a neighboring country covers him.
While distancing himself they saw him cry,
Walker, there is no path,
the path is made while walking,
stroke by stroke , verse by verse.
When the goldfinch cannot sing,
when the poet is a pilgrim,
when there is no use in praying,
walker, there is no path,
the path is made by walking,
stroke by stroke , verse by verse.
....... Christine.
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