Mi Último Adiós

My Last Farewell
(English translation of the original Spanish poem by José Rizal)

Farewell, beloved country—land of the cherished sun,
Pearl of the Eastern Sea, our Eden lost and gone.
To you I go, content, to give my fading life;
And were it brighter, fresher, more radiant, more in bloom,
Still for your sake I’d give it—give it for your good.

On battlefields, aflame, others surrender lives
Without a doubt, without regret, without a backward glance;
The place is nothing—cypress, laurel, lily,
Scaffold or open field, combat or cruel martyrdom—
It’s all the same when asked by home and country.

I die as I see the sky begin to blush with color
And at last the day is born from a gloomy hood;
If you need crimson to tint your rising dawn,
Pour out my blood; spill it in its proper hour,
And let a ray from that new light gild it.

My dreams—when I was only an adolescent boy,
My dreams—when young, and full of strength and flame—
Were to see you, jewel of the Orient Sea,
Your dark eyes dry, your smooth brow held high,
No frown, no wrinkle, no stain of shame.

Dream of my life, my burning, living longing,
My soul that soon will leave cries out: be well!
Be well! How beautiful it is to fall and give you wings,
To die so you may live, to die beneath your sky,
And in your enchanted earth to sleep eternity.

If over my grave you see, one day, among thick grass,
A simple flower—humble, small—begin to rise,
Bring it to your lips and kiss my soul,
And let me feel upon my brow beneath the cold earth
The breath of your tenderness, the warmth of your sigh.

Let the moon see me with calm and gentle light;
Let dawn send down its quick, brief radiance;
Let the wind lament with its deep murmuring;
And if a bird descends and rests upon my cross,
Let it sing there its song of peace.

Let the burning sun lift up the rains
And send them back to heaven, made pure, following my cry;
Let a dear friend weep early for my end,
And in the quiet evenings, when someone prays for me,
Pray too, O country, for my rest with God.

Pray for all who died in misfortune,
For all who suffered torments without equal;
For our poor mothers who groan in bitterness;
For orphans and widows, for prisoners in torture—
And pray for yourself, that you may see redemption.

And when the cemetery is wrapped in a dark night,
And only the dead remain, keeping vigil there,
Do not disturb their rest; do not disturb the mystery:
Perhaps you’ll hear harmonies of zither or psaltery—
It is I, beloved country, singing to you.

And when my tomb, forgotten by everyone,
Has neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let the plowman turn it; let the hoe scatter it;
And my ashes, before they return to nothing,
May become the dust that forms your carpet.

Then it will not matter if you place me in oblivion:
Your air, your space, your valleys I will cross—
A clear and vibrant note within your ear,
Aroma, light, color, murmur, song, a moan,
Constantly repeating the essence of my faith.

My idolized homeland, sorrow of my sorrows,
Beloved Philippines, hear this last goodbye.
Here I leave everything: my parents, my loves.
I go where there are no slaves, no executioners, no oppressors,
Where faith does not kill, where God alone reigns.

Farewell, parents and brothers, pieces of my soul;
Friends of my childhood in the home I have lost;
Give thanks that I now rest from the weary day.
Farewell, sweet foreigner, my friend, my joy—
Farewell, dear ones: to die is to rest.