The Poem: Traveler, there is no path is so much longer and more intense than the lines published here. It is sad that so few get the chance to read the complete poem. For anyone who is interested to read the whole poem, please follow the link: http: //sophiasmirror.blogspot.com/2018/08/traveler-there-is-no-path_12.html
I lived in Spain in the later sixties. The college kids I hung around with loved bullfighting, Real Madrid and Machado, not always in that order. He was, they would say to mea calm voice and someone who loved the people. They respected and loved the gypsy flash of Lorca (these were people who recited in the streets, to women from under balconies, in bars amidst the noise) but Machado was their honored and loving friend who gave them back a language that was their own.
Anoche cuando dormía soñé, ¡bendita ilusión!, que una fontana fluía dentro de mi corazón. Di, ¿por qué acequia escondida, agua, vienes hasta mí, manantial de nueva vida de donde nunca bebí? Anoche cuando dormía