Antonio Machado

While the burning fish is tracing his arcnear the cypress, beneath the highest blue of all,and the blind boy flies away in the white stone,and the ivory poem of the green cicadabeats and reverberates in the elm,let us give honor to the Lord__he black mark of his good hand__ho has arranged for silence in all this noise. Honor to the god of distance and of absence,ff the anchor in the sea__he open sea_He frees us from the world__t__ everywhere__e opens roads for us to walk on. With our cup of darkness filled to the brim,with our heart that always knows some hunger,let us give honor to the Lord who created the zeroand carved our thought out of the block of faith.

Like an abandoned dog who cannot finda smell or a track and roamsalong the roads, with no road, likethe child who in a night of the fairgets lost among the crowd,and the air is dusty, and the candlesfluttering,--astounded, his heartweighed down by music and by pain;that__ how I am, drunk, sad by nature,a mad and lunar guitarist, a poet,and an ordinary man lost in dreams,searching constantly for God among the mists.

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.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.

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

I dreamt -- marvellous 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.

Man would be otherwise. That is the essence of the specifically human.

All uncertainly is fruitful... so long as it is accompanied by the wish to understand.

Man would be "otherwise." That's the essence of the specifically human.

I thought my fireplace dead and stirred the ashes. I burned my fingers.

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.

When the I AM THAT I AM made nothingAnd rested, which rest it certainly deserved,Night now accompanied day, and manHad his friend in the absence of the woman.

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Hope says: one dayyou will see her, if you will only wait.Despair says:all you have left of her is your bitterness.Beat, heart_The earthhas not swallowed everything.

I.Don't trace out your profile--forget your side view--all that is outer stuff.II.Look for your other halfwho walks always next to youand tends to be who you aren't.