My translation of "Yo voy soñando caminos" by Antonio Machado
I'm dreaming paths
in the afternoon.
The hills
gold, green pines,
dust-pulsing oak...
Where does this road go?
I'm singing, traveler
along the way ...
— the afternoon's collapsing.
"At the heart there is
a cactus spike of passion;
One day I managed to pull it out:
Now I don't feel the heart."
And all the land a moment
stays, mute and gloomy,
meditating. Wind sounds
in poplars by the river.
The afternoon is mostly dark;
and the serpentine path
weakly whitens,
blurs and disappears.
My singing returns to lament:
"Sharp golden spike,
who you might feel
in a heart breached."
