Mi último adiós/My Last Farewell by José Rizal

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Mi último adiós

by José Rizal, 1896

¡Adiós, Patria adorada, región del sol querida,
Perla del mar de oriente, nuestro perdido Edén!
A darte voy alegre la triste mustia vida,
Y fuera más brillante, más fresca, más florida,
También por ti la diera, la diera por tu bien.

En campos de batalla, luchando con delirio,
Otros te dan sus vidas sin dudas, sin pesar;
El sitio nada importa, ciprés, laurel o lirio,
Cadalso o campo abierto, combate o cruel martirio,
Lo mismo es si lo piden la patria y el hogar.

Yo muero cuando veo que el cielo se colora
Y al fin anuncia el día tras lóbrego capuz;
si grana necesitas para teñir tu aurora,
Vierte la sangre mía, derrámala en buen hora
Y dórela un reflejo de su naciente luz.

Mis sueños cuando apenas muchacho adolescente,
Mis sueños cuando joven ya lleno de vigor,
Fueron el verte un día, joya del mar de oriente,
Secos los negros ojos, alta la tersa frente,
Sin ceño, sin arrugas, sin manchas de rubor

Ensueño de mi vida, mi ardiente vivo anhelo,
¡Salud te grita el alma que pronto va a partir!
¡Salud! Ah, que es hermoso caer por darte vuelo,
Morir por darte vida, morir bajo tu cielo,
Y en tu encantada tierra la eternidad dormir.

Si sobre mi sepulcro vieres brotar un día
Entre la espesa yerba sencilla, humilde flor,
Acércala a tus labios y besa al alma mía,
Y sienta yo en mi frente bajo la tumba fría,
De tu ternura el soplo, de tu hálito el calor.

Deja a la luna verme con luz tranquila y suave,
Deja que el alba envíe su resplandor fugaz,
Deja gemir al viento con su murmullo grave,
Y si desciende y posa sobre mi cruz un ave,
Deja que el ave entone su cántico de paz.

Deja que el sol, ardiendo, las lluvias evapore
Y al cielo tornen puras, con mi clamor en pos;
Deja que un ser amigo mi fin temprano llore
Y en las serenas tardes cuando por mí alguien ore,
¡Ora también, oh Patria, por mi descanso a Dios!

Ora por todos cuantos murieron sin ventura,
Por cuantos padecieron tormentos sin igual,
Por nuestras pobres madres que gimen su amargura;
Por huérfanos y viudas, por presos en tortura
Y ora por ti que veas tu redención final.

Y cuando en noche oscura se envuelva el cementerio
Y solos sólo muertos queden velando allí,
No turbes su reposo, no turbes el misterio,
Tal vez acordes oigas de cítara o salterio,
Soy yo, querida Patria, yo que te canto a ti.

Y cuando ya mi tumba de todos olvidada
No tenga cruz ni piedra que marquen su lugar,
Deja que la are el hombre, la esparza con la azada,
Y mis cenizas, antes que vuelvan a la nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan a formar.

Entonces nada importa me pongas en olvido.
Tu atmósfera, tu espacio, tus valles cruzaré.
Vibrante y limpia nota seré para tu oído,
Aroma, luz, colores, rumor, canto, gemido,
Constante repitiendo la esencia de mi fe.

Mi patria idolatrada, dolor de mis dolores,
Querida Filipinas, oye el postrer adiós.
Ahí te dejo todo, mis padres, mis amores.
Voy donde no hay esclavos, verdugos ni opresores,
Donde la fe no mata, donde el que reina es Dios.

Adiós, padres y hermanos, trozos del alma mía,
Amigos de la infancia en el perdido hogar,
Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso día;
Adiós, dulce extranjera, mi amiga, mi alegría,
Adiós, queridos seres, morir es descansar.

My Last Farewell

by José Rizal, 1896

(Modern English translation by Edwin Agustín Lozada)

Farewell, beloved Country, treasured region of the sun,
Pearl of the sea of the Orient, our lost Eden!
To you eagerly I surrender this sad and gloomy life;
And were it brighter, fresher, more florid,
Even then I’d give it to you, for your sake alone.

In fields of battle, deliriously fighting,
Others give you their lives, without doubt, without regret;
The place matters not: where there’s cypress, laurel or lily,
On a plank or open field, in combat or cruel martyrdom,
It’s all the same if the home or country asks.

I die when I see the sky has unfurled its colors
And at last after a cloak of darkness announces the day;
If you need scarlet to tint your dawn,
Shed my blood, pour it as the moment comes,
And may it be gilded by a reflection of the heaven’s newly-born light.

My dreams, when scarcely an adolescent,
My dreams, when a young man already full of life,
Were to see you one day, jewel of the sea of the Orient,
Dry those eyes of black, that forehead high,
Without frown, without wrinkles, without stains of shame.

My lifelong dream, my deep burning desire,
This soul that will soon depart cries out: Salud!
To your health! Oh how beautiful to fall to give you flight,
To die to give you life, to die under your sky,
And in your enchanted land eternally sleep.

If upon my grave one day you see appear,
Amidst the dense grass, a simple humble flower,
Place it near your lips and my soul you’ll kiss,
And on my brow may I feel, under the cold tomb,
The gentle blow of your tenderness, the warmth of your breath.

Let the moon see me in a soft and tranquil light,
Let the dawn send its fleeting radiance,
Let the wind moan with its low murmur,
And should a bird descend and rest on my cross,
Let it sing its canticle of peace.

Let the burning sun evaporate the rains,
And with my clamor behind, towards the sky may they turn pure;
Let a friend mourn my early demise,
And in the serene afternoons, when someone prays for me,
O Country, pray to God also for my rest!

Pray for all the unfortunate ones who died,
For all who suffered torments unequaled,
For our poor mothers who in their grief and bitterness cry,
For orphans and widows, for prisoners in torture,
And for yourself pray that your final redemption you’ll see.

And when the cemetery is enveloped in dark night,
And there, alone, only those who have gone remain in vigil,
Disturb not their rest, nor the mystery,
And should you hear chords from a zither or psaltery,
It is I, beloved Country, singing to you.

And when my grave, then by all forgotten,
has not a cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let men plow and with a spade scatter it,
And before my ashes return to nothing,
May they be the dust that carpets your fields.

Then nothing matters, cast me in oblivion.
Your atmosphere, your space and valleys I’ll cross.
I will be a vibrant and clear note to your ears,
Aroma, light, colors, murmur, moan, and song,
Constantly repeating the essence of my faith.

My idolized country, sorrow of my sorrows,
Beloved Filipinas, hear my last good-bye.
There I leave you all, my parents, my loves.
I’ll go where there are no slaves, hangmen nor oppressors,
Where faith doesn’t kill, where the one who reigns is God.

Goodbye, dear parents, brother and sisters, fragments of my soul,
Childhood friends in the home now lost,
Give thanks that I rest from this wearisome day;
Goodbye, sweet foreigner, my friend, my joy;
Farewell, loved ones, to die is to rest

IF by Rudyard Kipling

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IF
by Rudyard Kipling written in 1895

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

ULALUME by Edgar Allan Poe

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ULALUME

      The skies they were ashen and sober;
         The leaves they were crisped and sere-
         The leaves they were withering and sere;
     It was night in the lonesome October
         Of my most immemorial year;
     It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
         In the misty mid region of Weir-
     It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
         In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

     Here once, through an alley Titanic,
         Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul-
         Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
     There were days when my heart was volcanic
         As the scoriac rivers that roll-
         As the lavas that restlessly roll
     Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
         In the ultimate climes of the pole-
     That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
         In the realms of the boreal pole.

     Our talk had been serious and sober,
         But our thoughts they were palsied and sere-
         Our memories were treacherous and sere-
     For we knew not the month was October,
         And we marked not the night of the year-
         (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
     We noted not the dim lake of Auber-
         (Though once we had journeyed down here),
     Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
         Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

     And now, as the night was senescent,
         And star-dials pointed to morn-
         As the star-dials hinted of morn-
     At the end of our path a liquescent
         And nebulous lustre was born,
     Out of which a miraculous crescent
         Arose with a duplicate horn-
     Astarte's bediamonded crescent
         Distinct with its duplicate horn.

     And I said- "She is warmer than Dian:
         She rolls through an ether of sighs-
         She revels in a region of sighs:
     She has seen that the tears are not dry on
         These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
     And has come past the stars of the Lion,
         To point us the path to the skies-
         To the Lethean peace of the skies-
     Come up, in despite of the Lion,
         To shine on us with her bright eyes-
     Come up through the lair of the Lion,
         With love in her luminous eyes."

     But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
         Said- "Sadly this star I mistrust-
         Her pallor I strangely mistrust:-
     Oh, hasten!- oh, let us not linger!
         Oh, fly!- let us fly!- for we must."
     In terror she spoke, letting sink her
         Wings until they trailed in the dust-
     In agony sobbed, letting sink her
         Plumes till they trailed in the dust-
         Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

     I replied- "This is nothing but dreaming:
         Let us on by this tremulous light!
         Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
     Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
         With Hope and in Beauty to-night:-
         See!- it flickers up the sky through the night!
     Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
         And be sure it will lead us aright-
     We safely may trust to a gleaming
         That cannot but guide us aright,
         Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

     Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
         And tempted her out of her gloom-
         And conquered her scruples and gloom;
     And we passed to the end of the vista,
         But were stopped by the door of a tomb-
         By the door of a legended tomb;
     And I said- "What is written, sweet sister,
         On the door of this legended tomb?"
         She replied- "Ulalume- Ulalume-
         'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

     Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
         As the leaves that were crisped and sere-
         As the leaves that were withering and sere-
     And I cried- "It was surely October
         On this very night of last year
         That I journeyed- I journeyed down here-
         That I brought a dread burden down here-
         On this night of all nights in the year,
         Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
     Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber-
         This misty mid region of Weir-
     Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
         This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."