The following is a prose translation from the Spanish of the poem Dr. Rizal wrote the night before he was executed: 

My Last Thoughts.

Farewell! my adored country; region beloved of the sun; pearl of the Orient sea; our lost Eden!  I cheerfully give for thee my saddened life, and had it been brighter, happier and more rosy, I would as willingly give it for thy sake.

Unhesitatingly and without regret others give thee their lives in frenzied fight on the battlefield.  But what matter the surroundings!  Be they cypress, laurel or lilies, scaffold or open country, combat or cruel martyrdom, it is all the same, when for country and home’s redress.

I die while watching the flushing skies announce through dark mantle the advent of a day.  Should it need purple to tint its dawn, here is my blood; I gladly will shed it if only it be gilded by a ray of new-born light.

My dreams while only a boy, and when of vigor full, a youth, were always to see thee, jewel of the Orient sea! thy black eyes dry, thy frownless face uplifted, and spotless thine honor.

Dream of my life!  My fervent anxiety!  Shouts the soul that soon is to depart, Hail!  It is glorious to fall to give thee flight; to die to give thee life; to die under thy Skies, and in thy maternal bosom eternally to sleep.

Shouldst thou find some day over my grave, a lonesome, humble flower, blossoming through the dense foliage, take it to your lips and kiss my soul.  Let me feel upon my forehead under the cold tomb your warm and tender breath.

Let the moon with her soft and silent light watch over me; let dawn spread its fulgent splendor; let the wind moan with solemn murmur.  And should a bird descend and repose upon my cross, let it there proclaim a canticle of peace.

Let the burning sun evaporate the dew, spreading through space the notes of my songs.  Let a friendly being mourn my early end, praying on calm evenings, when thou also, oh, dear country! should pray to God for me.

Pray for all those who died unhonored; for those who suffered unequaled torments; for our poor mothers who silently grieve; for orphans and for widows; for prisoners in torture; and pray for thyself that thou mayest attain thy final redemption.

And when the dark shades of night enwrap the cemetery, and the dead are left alone to watch, do not disturb their rest, do not disturb their mystery.  Shouldst thou hear chords of a zither, it is I, beloved country! who sings to thee.

And when my grave, by all forgotten, is marked by neither cross nor stone, let the ploughman scatter its mould; and my ashes before returning to nothing will become the dust of your soil.

Then, I will not mind if thou castest me into oblivion.  Thy atmosphere, thy space, thy valleys I will cross.  A vibrating, limpid note I will be in your ear; aroma, color, rumor, song, a sigh, constantly repeating the essence of my faith.