Trotter There Is No Trail

Personal translation of Antonio Machado’s “Caminante No Hay Camino”

All passes and all remains,

but ours passes away,

passes blazing trails,

trails upon the sea.

I never pursued glory,

Nor leave in the memory

Of men my song;

I love the subtle worlds,

Ungravitated and gentle,

Like bubbles of soap

I like to see them painted

with sun and deep red, flying

Under the blue sky, tremble

Suddenly, and break apart.

I never pursued glory.

Trotter, your footprints are

the trail, and nothing else;

trotter, there is no trail,

the trail gets made on the trek.

Trekking makes the trail

and when looking back

the path can be seen, which never

will be trodden again.

Trotter, there’s no trail

but foam upon the sea.

Some time ago in that site

where today the forests dress up with spines

the voice of a poet was heard as he cried

“Trotter there is no trail,

the trail gets made on the trek…”

Blow by blow, verse by verse…

The poet died away from home.

He is covered with the dust of a neighbor country.

When departing, he was seen crying.

“Trotter, there is no trail,

the trail gets made on the trek…”

Blow by blow, verse by verse…

When the goldfinch cannot sing.

When the poet is a pilgrim,

when praying does not serve a thing.

“Trotter, there is no trail,

the trail gets made on the trek…”

Blow by blow, verse by verse.

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