Everything passes and everything remains,
but our thing is to pass,
to make paths,
paths over the sea.
I never pursued glory,
nor left in the memory
of men my song;
I love the subtle worlds,
weightless and gentle,
like soap bubbles.
I like to see them painted
of sun and scarlet, fly
under the blue sky, tremble
suddenly and break...
I never pursued glory.
Walker, they are your footprints
the path and nothing more;
walker, there is no path,
the path is made by walking.
When you walk you make the path
and when you look back
you see the path that will never be trodden again.
Walker there is no path
but trails in the sea...
Some time ago in that place
where today the forests are dressed in thorns
the voice of a poet was heard shouting:
"Walker there is no path,
a path is made by walking..."
Blow by blow, verse by verse...
The poet died far from home.
The dust of a neighboring country covers him.
As he walked away, they saw him cry.
"Walker, there is no path ,
The path is made by walking..."
Blow by blow, verse by verse...
When the goldfinch cannot sing.
When the poet is a pilgrim,
when it is of no use to pray.
"Walker there is no path,
the path is made by walking..."
Blow by blow, verse by verse.