The road is made by walking
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.
Wanderer, your footsteps are
the road, and nothing more;
wanderer, there is no road,
the road is made by walking.
By walking one makes the road,
and upon glancing behind
one sees the path
that never will be trod again.
Wanderer, there is no road,
Only wakes upon the sea.
Antonio Machado 1875-1939
Antonio Machado is widely viewed as one of the greatest Spanish language poets of the twentieth century, though a lack of decent translations into other languages means he is less well known internationally than he deserves.
Born in Seville he subsequently lived in Madrid and Paris. A supporter of the Spanish Republic he went into exile when Catalonia fell (although he was not a Catalan).
He ended up in the small village of Collioure in French Catalonia, and died there in 1939. I came across his grave there last week, as seen above. Not very well publicised, it is nonetheless a place of pilgrimage. Fresh flowers draped in the colours of the republic decorate the grave.
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