Cantares [English translation]

Everything passes and everything stays,

but our thing is passing,

passing making paths,

paths over the sea.

I never pursued glory,

nor leaving in the memory

of men my song;

I love subtle worlds,

gravityless and gentile

like soap bubbles.

I like to watch them paint themselves

of sun and garnet, fly

under the blue sky, tremble

all of a sudden and crumble.

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 by returning your sight back

you see the path that is never

to be step on again.

Walker, there is no path,

but trails on the sea.

Some time ago, in that place

where today the forests dress themselves of Pine,

the voice of a poet shouting was heard:

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 crying,

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 praying gives us no use,

walker, there is no path,

the path is made by walking,

stroke by stroke , verse by verse.