In 1969 a young Catalan singer Joan Manel Serrat, published and LP with songs based in the poems of Spanish poet Antonio Machado.
Some historical background:
Antonio Machado was in Madrid when the Spanish Civil War broke out in July 1936. The war was to separate him forever from his brother Manuel (a poet and a playwright) who was trapped in the Nationalist (Francoist) zone. Machado was evacuated with his elderly mother and uncle to Valencia, and then to Barcelona in 1938. Finally, as Franco closed in on the last Republican strongholds, they were obliged to move across the French border to Collioure. It was here, on 22 February 1939, that Antonio Machado died, just three days before his mother.
Antonio Machado was in Madrid when the Spanish Civil War broke out in July 1936. The war was to separate him forever from his brother Manuel (a poet and a playwright) who was trapped in the Nationalist (Francoist) zone. Machado was evacuated with his elderly mother and uncle to Valencia, and then to Barcelona in 1938. Finally, as Franco closed in on the last Republican strongholds, they were obliged to move across the French border to Collioure. It was here, on 22 February 1939, that Antonio Machado died, just three days before his mother.
English translation:
Wanderer, your footsteps are
the road and nothing more;
wanderer, there is no road,
the road is made by walking.
Walking makes the road,
and turning to look behind
you see the path that you
will never tread again.
Wanderer, there is no road,
only foam trails on the sea.
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from "Proverbios y cantares" in Campos de Castilla, 1912
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...
Nunca perseguí la gloria.
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.