Everything comes and everything goes but ours is to go,
to go making roads over the ocean.
I never went after glory, nor to leave on the minds of men my song.
I love the simple things, weightless and light, like soap bubbles.
I like to see them reflect the sun and the grain, float beneath the great blue sky, suddenly shake and then break.
I never went after glory…
Walking are your footsteps, the road and nothing more.
Walking there is no road
We make our road as we go.
As we go, we make our road and as we look back,
See the road over which we will never again go.
Walking there is no road, only the wake we leave as we go…
For a very long time and in the very same place the forests have been dressed in thorns.
A poet was heard shouting:
“Walking there is no road, we make our road as we go…”
Blow by blow, verse by verse.
The poet died a long way from home.
The dust of a neighboring nation covers his soul.
When he left, they saw him cry:
“Walking there is no road, we make our road as we go…”
Blow by blow, verse by verse.
When the songbird can no longer sing,
When the poet is a pilgrim,
When not even praying helps:
Walking there is no road, we make our road as we go…
Blow by blow, verse by verse.
Blow by blow, verse by verse.
Blow by blow, verse by verse.
~ Joan Manuel Serrat with José Antonio Machado