Antonio Machado HOME

Selected Poems

Cantares…

All goes, and all remains,
but our task is to go,
to go creating roads
roads through the sea.

My songs never chased
after glory to remain
in human memory.
I love the subtle worlds
weightless and charming,
worlds like soap-bubbles.
I like to see them, daubed
with sunlight and scarlet,
quiver, under a blue sky,
suddenly and burst…
I never chased glory.
Traveller, the road is only
your footprint, and no more;
traveller, there’s no road,
the road is your travelling.

Going becomes the road
and if you look back
you will see a path
none can tread again.
Traveller, every track
leaves its wake on the sea…
Once in this place
where bushes now have thorns
the sound of a poet’s cry was heard
‘Traveller there’s no road
the road is your travelling…’
Step by step, line by line…
The poet died far from home.
Shrouded by dust of a neighbouring land.
At his parting they heard him cry:
‘Traveller there’s no road
the road is your travelling…’

Step by step, line by line…
When the goldfinch can’t sing,
when the poet’s a wanderer,
when nothing aids our prayer.
‘Traveller there’s no road
the road is your travelling…’
Step by step, line by line

I follow the songs
with age-old rhythms
the children are singing
while they are playing
and showing in song
what their souls are dreaming,
like stone fountains
that show their water:
in monotonous murmurs
of undying laughter
that has in it no joy,
of ancient weeping
that has in it no pain
and speaks of sadness
the sadness of loving
of ancient legends.

In the mouths of children
the singing brings
the tale’s confusion,
pain that’s clear
as that clear water,
brings the message
of ancient love,
that it conceals.
Playing in shadows
of an ancient plaza
the children, singing…
The fountain of stone
poured out its eternal
crystal of legend.
The children were singing
innocent songs
of things that go on
and are never ending:
the story confused
the suffering clear.
The fountain serenely
continued its tale:
erasing the story,
telling the pain.

Last night as I was sleeping,

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.


Fields Of Soria

Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks
through which the Duero bends
its crossbow arc
round Soria, shadowed oaks,
stone dry-lands, naked mountains,
white roads and river poplars,
twilights of Soria, warlike and mystical,
today I feel, for you,
in my hearts depths, sadness,
sadness of love! Fields of Soria,
where it seems the stones have dreams,
you go with me! Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks.