Friday, June 29, 2007

Colossus of Rhodes

collossus of rhodes

Excerpt and photo from wikipedia:

The Colossus of Rhodes was a huge statue of the Greek god Helios, erected on the Greek island of Rhodes by Chares of Lindos, a student of Lysippos, between 292 and 280 BC. It was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Before its destruction, the Colossus of Rhodes stood 70 cubits tall, over 30 metres (100 feet), making it the tallest statue of the ancient world.

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Thursday, June 28, 2007

Mausoleum of Mausollos

Excerpt and photo from wikipedia.

Mausoleum of Maussollos, or Mausoleum of Halicarnassus (Ancient Greek: Μαυσωλεῖον Ἁλικαρνασσεύς, Μαυσωλεῖον τοῦ Ἁλικαρνασσοῦ (Ἀλικαρνασσοῦ)), was a tomb built between 353 and 350 BC at Halicarnassus (present Bodrum, Turkey) for Mausolus, a satrap in the Persian Empire, and Artemisia II of Caria, his wife and sister. The structure was designed by the Greek architects Satyrus and Pythius.[1][2] It stood approximately 45 meters (135 feet) in height, and each of the four sides was adorned with sculptural reliefs created by one of four Greek sculptors — Bryaxis, Leochares, Scopas and Timotheus.[3] The finished structure was considered to be such an aesthetic triumph that Antipater of Sidon identified it as one of his Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. The word mausoleum has since come to be used generically for any grand tomb, though "Mausol – eion" originally meant "[building] dedicated to Mausolus".

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Tuesday, June 19, 2007

My Retreat

My Retreat

by José Rizal

(A Translation from the Spanish by Nick Joaquin)

For Spanish version, see Me Retiro

Beside a spacious beach of fine and delicate sand

and at the foot of a mountain greener than a leaf,

I planted my humble hut beneath a pleasant orchard,

seeking in the still serenity of the woods

repose to my intellect and silence to my grief.

Its roof is fragile nipa; its floor is brittle bamboo;

its beams and posts are rough as rough-hewn wood can be;

of no worth, it is certain, is my rustic cabin;

but on the lap of the eternal mount it slumbers

and night and day is lulled by the crooning of the sea.

The overflowing brook, that from the shadowy jungle

descends between huge bolders, washes it with its spray,

donating a current of water through makeshift bamboo pipes

that in the silent night is melody and music

and crystalline nectar in the noon heat of the day.

If the sky is serene, meekly flows the spring,

strumming on its invisible zither unceasingly;

but come the time of the rains, and an impetuous torrent

spills over rocks and chasms—hoarse, foaming and aboil—

to hurl itself with a frenzied roaring toward the sea.

The barking of the dog, the twittering of the birds,

the hoarse voice of the kalaw are all that I hear;

there is no boastful man, no nuisance of a neighbor

to impose himself on my mind or to disturb my passage;

only the forests and the sea do I have near.

The sea, the sea is everything! Its sovereign mass

brings to me atoms of a myriad faraway lands;

its bright smile animates me in the limpid mornings;

and when at the end of day my faith has proven futile,

my heart echoes the sound of its sorrow on the sands.

At night it is a mystery! … Its diaphanous element

is carpeted with thousands and thousands of lights that climb;

the wandering breeze is cool, the firmament is brilliant,

the waves narrate with many a sigh to the mild wind

histories that were lost in the dark night of time.

‘Tis said they tell of the first morning on the earth,

of the first kiss with which the sun inflamed her breast,

when multitudes of beings materialized from nothing

to populate the abyss and the overhanging summits

and all the places where that quickening kiss was pressed.

But when the winds rage in the darkness of the night

and the unquiet waves commence their agony,

across the air move cries that terrify the spirit,

a chorus of voices praying, a lamentation that seems

to come from those who, long ago, drowned in the sea.

Then do the mountain ranges on high reverberate;

the trees stir far and wide, by a fit of trembling seized;

the cattle moan; the dark depths of the forest resound;

their spirits say that they are on their way to the plain,

summoned by the dead to a mortuary feast.

The wild night hisses, hisses, confused and terrifying;

one sees the sea afire with flames of green and blue;

but calm is re-established with the approach of dawning

and forthwith an intrepid little fishing vessel

begins to navigate the weary waves anew.

So pass the days of my life in my obscure retreat;

cast out of the world where once I dwelt: such is my rare

good fortune; and Providence be praised for my condition:

a disregarded pebble that craves nothing but moss

to hide from all the treasure that in myself I bear.

I live with the remembrance of those that I have loved

and hear their names still spoken, who haunt my memory;

some already are dead, others have long forgotten—

but what does it matter? I live remembering the past

and no one can ever take the past away from me.

It is my faithful friend that never turns against me,

that cheers my spirit when my spirit’s a lonesome wraith,

that in my sleepless nights keeps watch with me and prays

with me, and shares with me my exile and my cabin,

and, when all doubt, alone infuses me with faith.

Faith do I have, and I believe the day will shine

when the Idea shall defeat brute force as well;

and after the struggle and the lingering agony

a voice more eloquent and happier than my own

will then know how to utter victory’s canticle.

I see the heavens shining, as flawless and refulgent

as in the days that saw my first illusions start;

I feel the same breeze kissing my autumnal brow,

the same that once enkindled my fervent enthusiasm

and turned the blood ebullient within my youthful heart.

Across the fields and rivers of my native town

perhaps has traveled the breeze that now I breathe by chance;

perhaps it will give back to me what once I gave it:

the sighs and kisses of a person idolized

and the sweet secrets of a virginal romance.

On seeing the same moon, as silvery as before,

I feel within me the ancient melancholy revive;

a thousand memories of love and vows awaken:

a patio, an azotea, a beach, a leafy bower;

silences and sighs, and blushes of delight …

A butterfly athirst for radiances and colors,

dreaming of other skies and of a larger strife,

I left, scarcely a youth, my land and my affections,

and vagrant everywhere, with no qualms, with no terrors,

squandered in foreign lands the April of my life.

And afterwards, when I desired, a weary swallow,

to go back to the nest of those for whom I care,

suddenly fiercely roared a violent hurricane

and I found my wings broken, my dwelling place demolished,

faith now sold to others, and ruins everywhere.

Hurled upon a rock of the country I adore;

the future ruined; no home, no health to bring me cheer;

you come to me anew, dreams of rose and gold,

of my entire existence the solitary treasure,

convictions of a youth that was healthy and sincere.

No more are you, like once, full of fire and life,

offering a thousand crowns to immortality;

somewhat serious I find you; and yet your face beloved,

if now no longer as merry, if now no longer as vivid,

now bear the superscription of fidelity.

You offer me, O illusions, the cup of consolation;

you come to reawaken the years of youthful mirth;

hurricane, I thank you; winds of heaven, I thank you

that in good hour suspended by uncertain flight

to bring me down to the bosom of my native earth.

Beside a spacious beach of fine and delicate sand

and at the foot of a mountain greener than a leaf,

I found in my land a refuge under a pleasant orchard,

and in its shadowy forests, serene tranquility,

repose to my intellect and silence to my grief.


Monday, June 18, 2007

Mi Retiro

Mi Retiro
by Jose Rizal

For English translation, see My Retirement.

Cabe anchurosa playa de fina y suave arena

y al pie de una montaña cubierta de verdor

planté mi choza humilde bajo arboleda amena,

buscando de los bosques en la quietud serena

reposo a mi cerebro, silencio a mi dolor.

Su techo es frágil su suelo débil cana,

sus vigas y columnas maderas sin labrar;

nada vale, por cierto, mi rústica cabaña;

mas duerme en el regazo de la eterna montaña,

y la canta y la arrulla noche y días el mar.

Un afluente arroyuelo, que de la selva umbria

desciende entre peñascos, la baña con amor,

y un chorro le regala por tosca cañería

que en la cálida noche es canto y melodía

y néctar cristalino del día en el calor.

Si el cielo esta sereno, mansa corre la fuente,

Su cítara invisible tañedo sin cesar;

pero vienen las lluvias, e impetuoso torrente

peñas y abismos salta, ronco, espumante, hirviente,

y se arroja rugiendo frenético hacia el mar.

Del perro los ladridos, de las aves trino

del kalao la voz ronca solas se oyen alli,

no hay hombre vanidoso ni importuno vecino

que se imponga a mi mente, ni estorbo mi camino;

solo tengo las selvas y el mar cerca de mí.

El mar, el mar es todo! su masa soberana

los átomos me trae de mundos que lejos son;

me alienta su sonrisa de límpida mañana,

y cuando por la tarde mi fe resulta vana

encuentra en sus tristezas un eco el corazón.

DE noche es un arcano! ... su diáfano elemento

se cubre de millares, y millares de luz;

la brisa vaga fresca, reluce el firmamento,

las olas en suspiros cuentan al manso viento

historias que se pierden del tiempo en el capiz.

Dizque cuentan del mundo la primera alborada,

del sol el primer beso que su seno encendió,

cuando miles de seres surgieron de la nada,

y el abismo poblaron y la cima encumbrada

y doquiera su beso facundante estampó.

Mas cuando en noche oscura los vientos enfurecen

y las inquietas alas comienzan a agitar,

crusan en aire gritos que el ánimo estremecen

, coros, voces que rezan, lamentos que parecen

exhalar los que un tiempo se hundieron en el mar.

Entonces repercuten los montes de la altura,

los árboles se agitan de confín a confín;

aullan los ganados, retumba la espesura,

sus espíritus dicen que van a la llanura

llamadas por los muertos a fúnebre festín.

Silva, silva la noche, confusa, aterradora;

verdes, azules llamas en el mar vense arder;

mas la calma renace con la próxima aurora

y pronto una atrevida barquilla pescadora

las fatigadas alas comienza a recorrer.

Asi pasan los días en mi oscuro retiro,

desterrado del mundo donde tiempo viví,

de mi rara fortuna la providencia admiro:

quijarro abandonado que al musgo solo aspiro

para ocultar a todos el mundo que tengo en mí!

Vivo con los recuerdos de los que yo he amado

y oigo de vez en cuando sus nombres pronunciar:

unos estan ya muertos, otros me han abandonado;

¿mas que importa? ... Yo vivo pensando en lo pasado

y lo pasado nadie me puede arrebatar.

El es mi fiel amigo que nunca me desdora

que siempre alienta el alma cuando triste la ve,

que en mis noches de insomnio conmigo vela y ora

conmigo, y en mi destierro y en mi cabaña mora,

y cuando todos dudan solo él me infunde fe.

Yo la tengo, y yo espero que ha de brillar un día

en que venza la idea a la fuerza brutal,

que después de la lucha y la lente agonía,

otra voz mas sonora y mas feliz que la mía

sabrá cantar entonces el cántico truinfal.

Veo brillar el cielo tan puro y refulgente

como cuando forjaba mi primera ilusión,

el mismo soplo siento besar mi mustia frente,

el mismo que encendía mi entusiasmo ferviente

y hacía hervir la sangre del joven corazón.

Yo respiro la brisa que acaso haya pasado

por los campos y ríos de mi pueblo natal;

acaso me devuelva lo que antes le he confiado

los besos y suspiros de un ser idolatrado,

las dulces confidencias de un amor virginal!

Al ver la misma luna, cual antes argentada,

la antigua melancolía siento en mi renancer;

despiertan mil recuerdos de amor y fe jurada ...

un patio, una azotea, la playa, un enramada,

silencios y suspiros, rubores de placer ...

Mariposa sedienta de la luz y de colores,

sonando en otros cielos y en más vasto pensil,

dejé, jóven apenas, mi patria y mis amores,

y errante por doquiera sin dudas, sin temores,

gasté en tierras extrañas de mi vida de abril.

Y despues, cuando quise, golondrina causada,

al nido de mis padres y de mi amor volver,

rugió fiera de pronto violenta turbonada:

vense rotas mis alas, desecha la morada,

la fe vendida a otros y ruinas por doquier.

Lanzado a una pana de la patria que adora,

el porvenir destruído, sin hogar, sin salud,

de toda mi existencia el único tesoro,

creencias de una sana, sincera juventud.

Ya no sóis como antes, llenas de fuego y vida

brindando mil coronas a la inmortalidad;

algo serias os hallo; mas nuestra faz querida

si ya es tan sincera, si esta descolorida

en cambio lleva el sello de la fidelidad.

Me ofrecéis, oh ilusiones! la copa del consuelo,

y mis jovenes años a despertar venís:

gracias a ti, tormenta; gracias, vientos del cielo,

que a buena hora supísteis cortar mi incierto vuelo,

para abatirme al suelo de mi natal país.

Cabe anchurosa playa de fina y suave arena

y al pie de una montaña cubierta de verdor,

hallé en mi patria asilo bajo arboleda amena,

y en sus umbrosos bosques, tranquilidad serena,

reposo a mi cerebro, silencio a mi dolor.


Sunday, June 17, 2007

Davao Region

From wikipedia

Davao Region, designated as Region XI, is one of the regions of the Philippines, located on the southeastern portion of Mindanao. Davao Region consists of four provinces, namely: Compostela Valley, Davao del Norte, Davao del Sur, and Davao Oriental. The region encloses the Davao Gulf and its regional center is Davao City.

Region XI was originally called Southern Mindanao, and in addition to the three Davao provinces also included Surigao del Sur and South Cotabato. At that time, Compostela Valley was still part of Davao del Norte. Republic Act No. 7225, ratified on March 16, 1992, created the province of Sarangani from South Cotabato. Then, Republic Act No. 7901, signed on February 3, 1995, by President Fidel V. Ramos transferred Surigao del Sur into the newly created region of Caraga (Region XIII). Finally, on September 19, 2001, President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo's Executive Order No. 36 reorganized the regions and provinces in Mindanao. This moved South Cotabato and Sarangani to SOCCSKSARGEN region and renamed Southern Mindanao as Davao Region.

This region also bears the nickname Silicon Gulf.

CULTURAL GROUPS The region is an in-migration area, with a mixture of migrants, which include Cebuanos, Ilonggos and Ilocanos. Its ethnic groups include Manobos, Bagobos, Maiisakas, Maguindanon, T’boli, Tirurays and a few Muslims.

CLIMATE The region has a generally uniform distribution of rainfall through the year. It lies outside the typhoon belt.

NATURAL RESOURCES Aside from its forestland and fertile fields, Southern Mindanao has mineral resources of chrornite, iron, nickel, and manganese, gold, copper and other non-metallic minerals. Five of the major fishing grounds of the Philippines are located in the region.

ECONOMY While the region’s economy is predominantly agri-based. it is now developing into a center for agro-industrial business, trade and tourism. Its competitive advantage is in agri-industry as its products, bananas, pineapples, fresh asparagus, and fish products are exported abroad. The region can be a vital link to markets in other parts of Mindanao, Brunei Darussalam and parts of Malaysia and Indonesia.

There is a gradual shift to industrialization as shown with industry’s growth rate of 8.1% in 1996. Other economic activities are mining, fishery, forestry and agriculture.

FACILITIES The region’s principal ports are the Sasa International Seaport in Sasa, Sta. Ana Pier in the Chinatown District, Panabo Seaport in Davao del Norte, and Mati Seaport in Davao Oriental. Infrastructure developments in the cities within the region are considered excellent.

The airport in Davao City is the largest and most developed in Mindanao. The region is accessible by land, air and sea. The region has adequate communications facilities, reliable power and an abundant water supply.


Saturday, June 16, 2007

Misamis Occidental

map of misamis occidental
Misamis Occidental is a province of the Philippines located in the Northern Mindanao region. Its capital is Oroquieta City. The province borders Zamboanga del Norte and Zamboanga del Sur to the west and is separated from Lanao del Norte by Iligan Bay.

Region: Northern Mindanao (Region X)
Capital: Oroquieta City
Founded: June 6, 1952
2000 census—486,72 (28th smallest)
Density—251 per km² (27th highest)
Area: 1,939.3 km² (19th smallest)
Highly urbanized cities—0
Component cities—3
Congressional districts—2
Languages: Cebuano

Oroquieta-the capital

The word Oroquieta came from the Spanish words 'Oro' which means gold and 'Quieta' which means found.

Oroquieta was briefly the war-time capital of the Philippines during World War II, though it was not yet classified as a city at the time. President Manuel L. Quezon, on his way to the United States via Australia, arrived in Oroquieta and set up the war-capital government before he was picked up by USAFFE and Commonwealth officials and departed by submarine to Australia. After Japan's surrender and the establishment of the Republic of Philippines, the government changed the status of Oroquieta from municipality to city in recognition of its war period significance.


Wednesday, June 13, 2007

To the Young Women of Malolos

To the Young Women of Malolos
(London, February 22, 1889)

When I wrote Noli Me Tangere, I asked myself whether bravery was a common thing in the women of our people. I brought back to my recollection and reviewed those I had known since my infancy, but there were only few who seem to come up to my ideal. There was, it is true, an abundance of girls with agreeable manners, beautiful ways, and modest demeanor, but there was in all an admixture of servitude and deference to the words or whims of their so-called "spiritual fathers" (as if the spirit or soul had any father other than God), due to excessive kindness, modesty, or perhaps ignorance. They seemed faded plants sown and reared in darkness, having flowers without perfume and fruits without sap.

However, when the news of what happened at Malolos reached us, I saw my error, and great was my rejoicing. After all, who is to blame me? I did not know Malolos nor its young women, except one called Emilia, and her I knew by name only.

Now that you’ve responded to our first appeal in the interest of the welfare of the people; now that you have set an example to those who, like you, long to have their eyes opened and be delivered from servitude, new hopes are awakened in us and we now even dare to face adversity, because we have you for our allies and are confident of victory.

No longer does the Filipina stand with her head bowed nor does she spend her time on her knees, because she is quickened by hope in the future; no longer will the mother contribute to keeping her daughter in darkness and bring her up in contempt and moral annihilation. And no longer will the science of all sciences consist in blind submission to any unjust order, or in extreme complacency, nor will a courteous smile be deemed the only weapon against insult or humble tears the ineffable panacea for all tribulations. You know that the will of God is different of that of the priest; that religiousness does not consist of long periods spent on your on your knees, nor in endless prayers, big rosarios, and grimy scapulars, but in spotless conduct, firm intention and upright judgement.

You also know that prudence that does not consist in blindly obeying any whim of the little tin god, but in obeying only that which is reasonable and just, because blind obedience is itself the cause and origin of those whims, and those guilty of it are really to be blamed. The official or friar can no longer assert that they alone are responsible for their unjust orders, because God gave each individual reason and a will of his or her own to distinguish the just from the unjust; all were born without shackles and free, and nobody has a right to subjugate the will and the spirit of another. And why should you submit to another your thoughts, seeing that thought is noble and free?

It is cowardice and erroneous to believe that saintliness consists in blind obedience and that prudence and the habit of thinking are presumptuous. Ignorance has ever been ignorance, and never prudence and honor God, the primal source of all wisdom, does not demand that man, created in his image and likeness, allow himself to be deceived and hoodwinked, but wants us to use and let shine in the light of reason with which He has so mercifully endowed us. He may be compared to the father who gave each of his sons a torch to light their way in the darkness bidding them keep its light bright and take care of it, and not put it out and trust to the light of the others, but to help and advice each other to find the right path. They would be madmen were they to follow the light of another, only to come to a fall, and the father could unbraid them and say to them: "Did I not give each of you his own torch,", but he could not say so if the fall were due to the light of the torch of him who fell, as the light might have been dim and the road very bad.

The deceiver is fond of using the saying that "It is presumptuous to rely on one’s own judgment," but, in my opinion, it is more presumptuous for a person to put his judgment above that of the others and try to make it prevail over theirs. It is more presumptuous and even blasphemous for a person to attribute every movement of his lips to God, to represent every whim of his as the will of God, and to brand his own enemy as an enemy of God. Of course, we should not consult our own sense that is most reasonable to us. The wild man from the hills, if clad in a priest’s robe, remains a hillman and can only deceive the weak and ignorant. And, you will be lucky if the carabao does not become lazy on account of the robe. But I will leave this subject to speak of something else.

Youth is a flower-bed that is to bear rich fruit and must accumulate wealth for its descendants. What offspring will be that of a woman whose kindness of character is expressed by mumbled prayers; who knows nothing by heart but awits, novenas, and the alleged miracles; whose amusements consists in playing panguingue or in the frequent confession of the same sins? What sons will she have but acolytes, priest’s servants, or cockfighters? It is the mothers who are responsible for the present servitude of our compatriots, owing to the unlimited trustfulness of their loving hearts, to their ardent desire to elevate their sons. Maturity is the fruit of infancy and the infant is formed on the lap of its mother. The mother who can only teach her child how to knell and kiss hands must not expect sons with blood other than of vile slaves. A tree that grows in the mud is unsubstantial and good only for firewood. If her son should have a bold mind, his boldness would be deceitful and will be like the bat that cannot show itself until the ringing of the vespers. They say that prudence is sanctity. But, what sanctity have they shown us? To pray and kneel a lot, kiss the hand of the priests, throw money away on churches, and believe all the friar sees fit to tell us; gossip, callous rubbing of noses…

As to the gifts to God, is there anything in the world that does not belong to God? What would you say of a servant making his master a present of a cloth borrowed from that very master? Who is so vain, so insane that he will give alms to God and believe that the miserable thing he has given will serve to clothe the Creator of all things? Blessed be they who succor their fellow men, aid the poor and feed the hungry; but cursed be they who turn s dead ear to supplications of the poor, who only give to him who has plenty and spend their money lavishly on silver altar hangings for the thanksgiving, or in serenades and fireworks. The money ground out of the poor is bequeathed to the master so that he can provide for chains to subjugate, and hire thugs and executioners. Oh, what blindness, what lack of understanding!

Saintliness consists in the first place in obeying the dictates of reason, happen what may. "It is acts and not words that I want of you," said Christ. "Not everyone that sayeth unto me, Lord, Lord shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in Heaven." Saintliness does not consist in abjectness, nor is the successor of Christ to be recognized by the fact that he gives his hand to be kissed. Christ did not give the kiss of peace to the Pharisees and never gave His hand to be kissed. He did not cater to the rich and vain; he did not mention scapularies, nor did he make rosaries, or solicit offerings for the sacrifice of the mass or exact payments for His prayers. Saint John did not demand a fee on the River Jordan, nor did Christ teach for gain. Why, then, do the friars now refuse to stir a foot unless paid in advance? And, as if they were starving, they sell scapularies, rosaries, bits, and other things which are nothing but schemes for making money and detriment to the soul; because even if all the rags on earth were converted into scapularies and all the trees in the forest into rosaries, and if the skins of all the beasts were made into belts and if all the priests of the earth mumbled prayers over all this and sprinkled oceans of holy water over it, this would not purify a rogue or condone sin where there is no repentance. Thus, also, through cupidity and love of money, they will, for a price, revoke the numerous prohibitions such as those against eating meat, marrying close relatives, etc. you can do almost anything if you but grease their palms. Why that? Can God be bribed and bought off, and blinded by money, nothing more nor less than a friar? The brigand who has obtained a bull of compromise can live calmly on the proceeds of his robbery, because he will be forgiven. God, then, will at a table where theft provides the viands? Has the omnipotent become pauper that He must assume the role of the excise man or gendarme? If that is the God whom the friar adores, then I turn my back upon that God.

Let us be reasonable and open our eyes, especially you women, because you are the first to influence the consciousness of man. Remember that a good mother does not resemble the mother that the friar has created; she must bring up her child to be the image of the true God, not of a blackmailing, a grasping god, but of a God who is the father of us all, who is just; who does not suck the life-blood of the poor like a vampire, nor scoffs at the agony of the sorely beset, nor makes a crooked path of the path of justice. Awaken and prepare the will of our children towards all that is honorable, judged by proper standards, to all that is sincere and firm of purpose, clear judgement, clear procedure, honesty in act and deed, love for the fellow man and respect for God; this is what you must teach to your children. And, seeing that life is full of thorns and thistles, you must fortify their minds against any stroke of adversity and accustom them to danger. The people cannot expect honor nor prosperity so long as they will educate their children in a wrong way, so long as the woman who guides the child in his steps is slavish and ignorant. No good water comes from a turbid, bitter spring; no savory fruit comes from acrid seed.

The duties that woman has performed in order to deliver the people from suffering are of no little importance, but be they may, they will not be beyond the strength and stamina of the Filipino people. The power and good judgment of the woman of the Philippines are well known, and it is because of this that she has been hoodwinked, and tied, and rendered pusillanimous; and now her enslavers rest at ease, because so long as they can keep the Filipina mother a slave, so long they will be able to make slaves of her children. The cause of the backwardness of Asia lies in the fact that there the women are ignorant, are slaves, while Europe and America are powerful because there the women are free and well educated and endowed with lucid intellect and string will.

We know that you lack instructive books; we know that nothing is added to your intellect, day by day, save that which is intended to dim its natural brightness; all this we know, hence our desire to bring you the light that illuminates your equals here in Europe. If that which I tell you does not provoke your anger, and if you will pay a little attention to it then, however dense the mist may that befogs our people, I will make the utmost efforts to have it dissipated by the bright rays of the sun, which will light, though they may be dimmed. We shall not feel any fatigue if you help us: God, too, will help to scatter the mist, because he is the God of truth; He will restore to its pristine condition the fame of the Filipina in whom we now miss only a criterion of her own, because good qualities she has enough and to spare. This is our dream; this is the desire we cherish in our hearts; to restore the honor of a woman, who is half of our heart, our companion in the joys and tribulations of life. If she is a maiden, young man should love her not only because of her beauty and her amiable character, but also on account of her fortitude of mind and loftiness of purpose. Which quicken and elevate the feeble and timid and ward off all vain thoughts. Let the maiden be the pride of her country and command respect, because it is a common practice on the part of the Spaniards and friars here who have returned from the Islands to speak of the Filipina as complaisant and ignorant, as if it should be thrown into the same class because of the missteps of a few, and as if women of weak character did not exist in other lands. As to purity what could the Filipina not hold up to others!

Nevertheless, the returning Spaniards and friars, talkative and fond of gossip, can hardly find time enough to brag and bawl, amidst guffaws and insulting remarks, that a certain women was thus; that she behave thus at the convent and conducted herself thus with the Spaniards who on the occasion was her guest, and other things that set your teeth on edge when you think of them which, in the majority of cases, were faults due to candor, excessive kindness, meekness or perhaps ignorance and were all the work of the defamer him self. There is a Spaniard now in high office, who has sat at our table and enjoy our hospitality in his wanderings through the Philippines and who upon his return to Spain, rushed worth with into-print and related that on one occasion in Pampanga he demanded hospitality and ate, and slept at the house and the lady of the house conducted herself in such and such a manner with him; this is how he repaid the lady for her supreme hospitality! Similar insinuation are made to the friars to the chance visitor from Spain concerning their very obedient confesandas, hand-kissers, etc., accompanied by smiles and very significant wingkings of the eyes. In a book published by D. Sinibaldo de Mas and in other friar sketches sin are related of which women accused themselves of the confessional and of which the friar made no secret in talking to their Spanish visitor seasoning them, at the best, with idiotic and shameless tales not worthy of credence. I cannot repeat here the shameless stories that a friar told Mas and to which Mas attributed no value whatever. Everytime we hear or read anything of this kind, we ask each other: Are the Spanish women all cut after the pattern of the Holy Virgin Mary and the Filipinas all reprobates? I believe that If we are to balance accounts in this delicate question, perhaps… But I must drop the subject because I am neither a confessor nor a Spanish traveler and have no business to take away anybody’s goodname. I shall let this go and speak of the duties of women instead.

A people that respect woman, like the Filipino people, must know the truth of the situation in order to be able to do what is expected of it. It seems an established fact that when a young student falls inlove, he throws everything to the dogs – knowledge, honor and money, as if a girl could not do anything but sow misfortune. The bravest youth becomes a coward when he married and the born coward becomes shameless, as if he had been waiting to get married in order to show his cowardice. The son, in order to hide his pusillanimity, remembers his mother, swallows his wrath, suffers his ears to be boxed, obeys the most foolish orders, and become an accomplice to his own dishonor. It should be remembered that where no body flees there is no pursuer; when there is no little fish, there can not be a big one. Why does the girl not require of her lover a noble and honored name, a manly heart offering protection to her weakness, and high spirit incapable of being satisfied with engendering slaves? Let her discard all fear, let her behave nobly and not deliver her youth to the weak and faint-hearted. When she is married, she must aid her husband, inspire him with courage, share his perills, refrain from causing him worry and sweeten her moments of affliction, always remembering that there is no grief that a brave heart can not bear and there is no bitterer inheritance than that of infamy and slavery. Open your children’s eyes so that they may jealousy guard their honor, love their fellowmen and their native land, and do their duty. Always impress upon them they must prefer dying with honor to living in dishonor. The women of Sparta should serve you as an example in this; I shall give some of their characteristics.

When a mother handed the shield to her son as he was marching to the battle, she said nothing to him but this: "Return with it, or on it," which mean, come back victorious or dead, because it was customary with the routed warrior to throw away his shield, while the dead warrior was carried home on his shield. When a mother received word that that her son had been killed in battle and the army routed, she did not say a word, but expressed her thankfulness that her son returned alive and the mother put on mourning. One of the mothers who went out to meet the warriors returning to battle asked if if her three sons had been victorious or not. We have been victorious – answered the warrior. If that is so, then let us thank God, and she went to the temple.

Once upon a time a king of theirs, who had been defeated, hid in the temple, because he feared the popular wrath. The Spartans resolved to shut him up there and starve him to death. When they were blocking the door, the mother was the first to bring the stones. These things were in accordance with the custom there, and all Greece admire the Spartan woman. Of all women – a woman said jestingly – only you Spartans have power over the men. Man, the Spartan women said, was not born to live life for himself alone but for his native land. So long as this way of thinking prevailed and they had that kind of women in Sparta, none was there a woman in Sparta who ever saw a hostile army.

I do not expect to be believed simply because it is I who am saying this; there are many people who do not listen to reason, but will listen only to those who hear the cassock or have gray hair or no teeth; but while it is true that the aged should be venerated, because of their travails and experience, yet the life I have lived, consecrated to the happiness of the people, add some years, though not many of my age. I do not pretend to be looked upon as an idol or fetish and to be believed and listened to with the eyes closed, the head bowed, and the arms crossed over the breast; what I ask of all is to reflect on what I tell him, think it over and sift it carefully through the sieve of reason.

First of all. That the tyranny of some is possible only through cowardice and negligence on the part of others.

Second. What makes one contemptible is lack of dignity and object fear of him who holds one in contempt.

Third. Ignorance is servitude, because as a man thinks, so he is; a man who does not think for himself and allowed himself to be guided by the thought of other is like the beast led by a halter.

Fourth. He who loves his independence must first aid his fellowman, because he who refuses protection to others will find himself without it; the isolated rib of the buri palm is easily broken, but not so the broom made of the ribs of the palm bound together.

Fifth. If the Filipina will not change her mode of being, let her rear no more children, let her merely give birth to them. She must cease to be the mistress of the home, otherwise she will unconsciously betray husband, child native land, and all.

Sixth. All men are born equal, naked, without bonds. God did not create man to be a slave; nor did he endow him with intelligence to have him hoodwinked, or adorn him with a reason to have him deceived by others. It is not fatuous to refuse to worship one’s equal, to cultivate one’s intellect, and to make use of reason in all things. Fatuous is he who makes a god of him, who makes brutes of others, and who strives to submit to his whims all that is reasonable and just.

Seventh. Consider well that kind of religion that they are teaching you. See whether it is the will of the God or according to the teachings of Christ that the poor be succored and those who suffer alleviated. Consider what they are preaching to you, the object of the sermon, what is behind the masses, novenas, rosaries, scapularies, images, miracles, candles, belts, etc., etc.; which they daily keep before your minds; ears and eyes; jostling, shouting, and coaxing, investigate whence they came and whether they go and then compare that religion with the pure religion of Christ and see whether the pretended observance of the life of Christ does not remind of the fat mik cow or the fattened pig, which is encouraged to grow fat not through love of the animal, but not grossly mercenary motives.

Let us, therefore, reflect and consider our situation and see how we stand. May these poorly written lines aid you in your good purpose and help you to pursue the plan you have initiated. "May your profit be greater than the capital investment," and I shall gladly accept the usual reward of all who dare the people the truth. May your desire to educate yourself be crowned with success; may you in the garden of learning gather not bitter, but choice fruit, looking well before you eat because on the surface of the globe all is deceit, and the enemy sows weeds in your seedling plot.

All this is the ardent desire of your compatriot.



Saturday, June 9, 2007

Huring Paaram-Bicol translation of Mi Ultimo Adios

Bicol Translation of Last Farewell
Bicol: Huring Paaram

Ni Dr. Jose P. Rizal
Sinurat sa Bicol ni Jose T. Figueroa

For original Spanish version, see Mi Ultimo Adios

For German translation, see "Mein Letztes Lebewohl"

For English translation, see My Last Farewell.

Paaram saimo banuang minamahal, dagang pinaorog nin astro nin aldao,
Perlang magayonon, mutia sa sirangan, maguinhauang Eden, ica babayaan.
Aco mapa-gadan ta saimo I-alay buhay cong mamondo asin malipongao,
Cun cuta na maogma, masarig, mabansay, lalo cong idolot ngani cang ma-buhay.

Sa campong labanan minaagap dacol, buhay hinahatod daing orong-orong,
Di na iniisip cun anong aabton, lango an cabagay cun momoninongon.
Dustang bibitayan, cetro o corona, madaog, manaog, magsaquit, mag ogma,
An gabos na ini ranya sa sainda cun iyo an hagad can satuyang banua.

Can aco sadang pa, culang pa nin boot, caso dacula na sangcap na nin cosog,
Ica, iyo sana sa isip an laog, ica daing iba an pinngangatorog.
¡Daing hanap cundi, oh, mutia nin dagat! An luha sa mata obos na mahoblas,
Angog mong magayon ma-panong liuanag, sa puso ma-hale an tacot, an ngirhat.

Aco magagadan oras nin pag-sinag sa licod nin diclom, aldao nin libertad,
Cun hanap mo, banua, dugo mag-uarasac, uya an dugo co minsan anong oras.
I-uasac mong biyo, di mo pagnyanongan, cun mataong curay sa aldao na iyan,
Tara sacong laom dugo co uarasan, gayon nin banaag na bagong somirang.

Banuang dayaday co na pagñatorogan, mau-ot cong bolanos sa bilog cong buhay,
Ma-buhay ca banua! Iyo an agrangay caining ma-hale, saimo ma-suhay.
Ma-buhay ca! Oh, labilabing gayon, na aco ma-pucan, ica an bomangon,
Ica an ma-buhay, aco an gadanon, asin an bangcay co sa lindong mo ilobong.

Cun sa linobongan co sa hodian na aldao, sa tahao nin doot igua nin somongao,
Macumbabang burac saca mo matanao, hadoque ta iayn ancalag cong tunay.
Hadoque ta nganing sacong ma-matean sa tahao nin lipot nin sacong linobongan,
Masangayang init nin saimong hangao asin an managum na simong pagmahal.

Hare pag-olanga liuanag nin bulan, can boot somongco sa sacong linobongan,
Aldao pabayae oras nin pagsirang cun i-alay saco an saiyang bangrao.
Di mo pag-pogolon tomangis an doros, an gamgam tomogdon sa sacuyang cruz,
Gamgam togotan mo na an pagcamoroot ipag-roquiao nia sa maogmang tigñog.

Pabayae an aldao sa cosog nin init, oran na ma-holog ibalic sa langit
Na day nang ati, lobos nang matubis, ta caiba caiyan sacong hinanaquit.
Pabayae an gabos na sacong catood magnangag-tangis sinda caining pag-talicod,
Cun iguang ma-mibi sa sacong panongod, hagada man, banua, murauay co sa Dios.

Hagada sa lagñit an camoninogñan can manga gadan na simo an dahelan,
Can magña aqui mong nasa bilangoan, ipaquemaherac an caguinhauaan.
Asin magña inang sa luha nalamos, balo patin ilo tagob nin pag-tios,
Sa gabos caini hagadang padagos hanap mong libertad ma-camtan mo tolos.

Cun sa labing diclom nin banguing lipotoc, ma-para sa mata an linobongan gabos
Na day na cundi gadan an magtanod, moninong galange, hero mo i-ontoc.
Herote nin marhay an camoninongan, misterio nin Bangui di mo pag-ribocan,
Cun maca-dagñog ca tigñog na ano man, aco iyan, banua, simo nagroroquiao.

Cun an linobongan co lingao na nin gabos, day na nin tanda, day na minsan cruz,
Arado togote asin an asadol, ronoton, i-uasac dagang minaosbol .
Asin an abo ngapit can sacuyang bangcay, cun manga ronot na gabos sagcod tolang,
Bago mapa-balic sa day nin saysay, sa simong alfombra maguin alpog lamang.

Cun siring day na sa saco nin haros na aco lingawan, paraon padagos,
Sa panganoron mo, patag patin bolod di co oontocan sinda nin paglibot.
Sa ogong, sa bac-ho, sa pag-aagrangay, sa manga pag-auit asin sa pag-roquiao,
Saimong pagdangog tingog cong malinao, ta tingog mo aco sagcod noarin man.

Ma-saro sa curay, sa bangrao ma-salac, ma-iaba sa amio nin gabos na burac,
Sa pagolit-olit, sa puso mo i-bogtac dalisay cong pag-tobod na di mapa-hamac.
Inang Filipinas, saquit nin saquit co, huri cong paaram gñonian acoon mo,
Ama patin ina iualat co saimo, sagcod pa an gabos na minamahal co.

Aco ma-paduman sa dagang mapalad, na daing oripon, verdugo, o palpal,
An pag-tobod day iquina-gagadan, haros ta an Dios sana an nag-hahade duman.
Paaram ina co, ama, magña tugang, buhay nin buhay co, saco nag-ataman,
Paghale cong ini pag-pasalamatan ta iyong ma-tapos manga casaquitan.

Paaram, oh!
Agom na nagherot saco, taga ibang daga ranga caining puso,
Paaram sa gabos, di camo mag-mondo ta an cagadanon iyong pag-hingalo.

Note: Some words with gn have to be revised.


Friday, June 8, 2007

Mi Ultimo Adios

The last poem written by Rizal entitled Mi Ultimo Adios

Mi Ultimo Adios

por Jose Rizal y Alonso

For English translation, see My Last Farewell

For German translation, see "Mein Letztes Lebewohl"

For Bicol translation, see Huring Paaram.

Adios, Patria adorada, region del sol querida,
Perla del Mar de Oriente, nuestra perdido Eden!
A darte voy alegre la triste mustia vida,
Y fuera mas brillante, mas fresca, mas florida,
Tambien por ti la diera, la diera por tu bien.

En campos de batalla, luchando con delirio
Otros te dan sus vida sin dudas, sin pesar;
El sitio nada importa, cipres, 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 dia tras lobrego capuz;
Si grana necesitas para tenir tu aurora,
Vierte la sangre mia, derramala en buen hora
Y dorela un reflejo de su naciente luz

Mis suenos cuando apenas muchaco adolescente,
Mis suenos cuando joven ya lleno de vigor,
Fueron el verte un dia, joya del Mar de Oriente
Secos los negros ojos, alta la tersa frente,
Sin ceno, sin arrugas, sin mancha de rubor.

Ensueno 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 vidda, morir bajo tu cielo,
Y en tu encantada tierra la eternidad dormir.

Si sobre mi sepulcro vieres brotar un dia
Entre la espesa yerba sencilla, humilde flor,
Acercala a tus labios y besa el alma mia,
Y sienta yo en mi frente bajo la tumba fria
De tu ternura el soplo, de tu halito el calor.

Deja la luna verme con luz tranquila y suave;
Deja que el alba envie 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 cantico 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 mi alguien ore
Ora tambien, Oh Patria, por mi descanso a Dios!

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

Y cuando en noche oscura se envuelva el cementerio
Y solos solo muertos quedan velando alli
No turbes su reposo, no turbes el misterio
Tal vez acordes oigas de citara 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 nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan a formar.

Entonces nada importa me pongas en olvido,
Tu atmosfera, tu espacio, tus valles cruzare,
Vibrante y limpia nota sere para tu oido,
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 adios.
Ahi, 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.

Adios, padres y hermanos, trozos del alma mia;
Amigos de la infancia en el perdido hogar,
Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso dia.
Adios, dulce extranjera, mi amiga, mi alegria!
Adios, queridos seres. Morir es descansar.


Thursday, June 7, 2007

My Last Farewell -English Version of Mi Ultimo Adios

My Last Farewell
English version

For original Spanish version, see Mi Ultimo Adios

For German translation, see "Mein Letztes Lebewohl"

For Bicol translation, see Huring Paaram.

Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed,
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.

On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,
Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,
The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white,
Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site,
It is the same if asked by home and Country.

I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show
And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;
If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,
Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,
And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light!

My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,
My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,
Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient,
Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane
Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.

My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,
Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;
Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;
To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire,
And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity !

If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,
A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,
Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,
And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,
Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness.

Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,
Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,
In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,
And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,
Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site.

Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize
And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;
Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;
And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,
Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.

Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,
For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;
For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;
For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,
And pray too that you may see you own redemption.

And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry
And only the dead to vigil there are left alone,
Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery:
If you hear the sounds of cithern or psaltery,
It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone.

And when my grave by all is no more remembered,
With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered
And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,
Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.

Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me:
Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep;
Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:
Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,
Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.

My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,
Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken
There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,
I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen
Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.

Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,
Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;
Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;
Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;
Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.


Wednesday, June 6, 2007

My Last Farewell -German Version

Jose Rizal's Last Farewell translated in German language

For English translation, see My Last Farewell

For Bicol translation, see Huring Paaram.

"Mein Letztes Lebewohl"

"Übersetzung Pablo Lazlo"

Leb wohl, geliebte Heimat, der Sonne Kind so süß,
Perle des Orientes, verlorenes Paradies.
Ich gebe dir mit Freuden das trübe, welke Leben;
Und wenn es schöner wäre, voll Glück und Glanz und Ehre,
Auch dann hätt' ich's gegeben, zu dienen dir gegeben.

Auf den Schlachtfeldern kämpfend, begeistert, verwegen,
Ohne Zaudern manch andrer dir opfert das Leben,
Was kümmert der Ort uns, die Lorber der Lilien,
Ob am Galgen, am Felde, im Kampf, in Martyrien,
Unser Heim und die Heimat zu befreien wir streben.

Ich sterbe wenn schon durch die düsteren Wolken
Mit strahlendem Glanze das Morgenrot bricht;
Und brauchst du mehr Purpur um es röter zu färben,
So nehme mein Herzblut, wenn es netzt mich im Sterben,
Daß es vergolde das neue, erstehende Licht.

Mein Traum schon als kleiner, halbwüchsiger Knabe,
Und mein Traum als ins Jünglingsalter ich kam,
War einst dich zu sehen, Juwel östlicher Meere,
Mit trockenen Augen und die Stirne, die hehre,
Ohne Falten, erhoben, ohne Röte der Scham.

Mein sehnlich Verlangen, oh Traum meines Lebens,
Glückauf! ruft die seel, die von hinnen muß stürmen,
Glückauf! oh wie schön ist's nicth zu sterben vergebens,
Für dein Leben zu sterben, unter deinen Gestirnen,
Die in deiner schönen Erde ewig mich beschirmen.

Und hast eines Tages du auf meinem Grabe
Im wuchernden Grase ein Blümlein gefunden,
Heb' es an die Lippen und küß' meine Seele,
Daß der zärtliche Hauch diener Liebe beseele
Meine Stirne im freudlosen Grabe dort unten.

Laß' das Mondlicht mir scheinen so süß und so lind,
Und laß' daß der Morgen in Flammen mir glüht,
Laß' mit traurigem Seufzer mich umwehen den Wind,
Und das Vöglein, bevor es fortfliegt geschwind,
Sing auf meinem Kreuze ein friedliches Lied.

Laß die strahlende Sonne auftrocknen den Regen,
Rein mit meinem Flehen kehr' zum Himmel er zurück,
Laß' jemand beweinen meinen verfrühten Tod,
Bete auch du, Vaterland, für mein Heil zu Gott.

Oh bete für alle die glücklos verschieden,
Für alle die furchtbare Qualen erlitten,
Für die seufzenden Mütter, deren Herz ohne Frieden,
Für die Witwer und Waisen, denen Foltern beschieden,
Und die eigne Erlösung sollst betend du bitten.

Wenn die Schatten des Abends den Friedhof verhüllen,
Und nur die Toten dort lauschen in einsamer Nacht,
Stör' nicht ihr Geheimnis, ihre Ruh' wenn die stillen
Lüfte Gitarren und Zithern erfüllen,
Ich bin es, Vaterland, der singend, dir wacht.

Und wenn dann mein Grab schon vergessen von allen,
Das Kreuz und der Grabstein vermodert, verfallen,
Laß den Spaten des Landmanns verstreuen die Erde,
Und bevor meine Asche ins Nicht wiederkehre
Zum Staub deines blühenden Teppichs sie werde.

Dann magst du mich vergessen, dann ist es mir schon gleich,
Ich durchzieh' deine Täler, deine Luft, deine Gründe,
Als Ton rein und ehern tön ich durch deine Gründe,
Als Seufzer, Licht und Farbe, Gesang und Duft so reich,
Den Kern meines Glaubens stets neu ich verkünde.

Angebetene Heimat, Schmerz meiner Schmerzen,
Geliebte Philippinen, hör' mein letztes Lebwohl,
Dir laß ich alles; die Eltern, die Liebe im Herzen,
Geh' ins Land ohne Sklaven, Tyrannen und Henker,
Wo der Glaube nicht tötet, wo Gott ist der Lenker.

Lebt wohl Eltern, Geschwister, Blut von meinen Blut,
Freunde meiner Kindheit im heim verloren nun,
Gebt Dank, daß ich raste nach des Tags Müh und Glut,
Leb wohl, süße Fremde, meine Freunde, mein Gut,
Lebt wohl, geliebte Wesen, lebt wohl, sterben ist ruhn.



Tuesday, June 5, 2007

A Las FLores de Heidelberg-with English Translation

A Las Flores De Heidelberg

Id a mi patria, id, extrangeras flores,
sembradas del viajero en el camino,
y bajo su azul cielo,
que guarda mis amores,
contad del peregrino
la fe que alienta por su patrio suelo!
id y decid ... decid que cuando el alba
vuestro caliz abrio por vez primera
cabe el Neckar helado,
le visteis silencioso a vuestro lado
pensando en su constante primavera.
Decid que cuando el alba,
que roba vuestro aroma,
cantos de amor jugando os susurraba,
el tambien murmuraba
cantos de amor en su natal idioma;
que cuando el sol la cumbre
del Koenigsthul en la manana dora
y con su tibia lumbre
anima el valle, el bosque y la espesura,
saluda a ese sol aun en su aurora,
al que en su patria en el cenit fulgura !
y contad aquel dia
cuando os cogia al borde del sendero,
entre ruinas del feudal castillo,
orilla al Neckar, o a la selva umbria.
Contad lo que os decia ,
cuando, con gran ciudado
entre las paginas de un libro usado
vuestras flexibles hojas oprimia.

Llevad, llevad, oh flores !
amor a mis amores
paz a mi pais y a su fecunda tierra,
fe a sus hombres, virtud a sus mujeres,
salud a dulces seres
que el paternal, sagrado hogar encierra ...

Cuando to queis la playa,
el beso os imprimo
depositadlo en ala de la brisa,
por que con ella vaya
y bese cuanto adora, amo y estimo.

Mas ay llegareis flores,
conservareis quizas vuestras colores,
pero lejos del patrio, heroico suelo
a quien debeis la vida:
que aroma es alma, y no abandona el cielo,
cuya luz viera en su nacer, ni olvida.

To The Flowers Of Heidelberg

Go to my country, go, foreign flowers,
Planted by the traveler on his way,
And there beneath that sky of blue
That over my beloved towers,
Speak for this traveler to say
What faith in his homeland he breathes to you.

Go and say. . . say that when the dawn
First drew your calyx open there
Beside the River Neckar chill,
You saw him standing by you, very still,
Reflecting on the primrose flush you wear.

Say that when the morning light
Her toll of perfume from you wrung,
While playfully she whispered, "How I love you!"
He too murmured here above you
Tender love songs in his native tongue.

That when the rising sun the height
Of Kainigsthul in early morn first spies,
And with its tepid light
Is pouring life in valley, wood, and grove,
He greets the sun as it begins to rise,
Which in his native land is blazing straight above.

And tell them of that day he staid
And plucked you from the border of the path,
Amid the ruins of the feudal castle,
By the River Neckar, and in the silvan shade.
Tell them what he told you
As tenderly he took
Your pliant leaves and pressed them in a book,
Where now its well worn pages close enfold you.

Carry, carry, flowers of Rhine,
Love to every love of mine,
Peace to my country and her fertile loam,
Virtue to her women, courage to her men,
Salute those darling ones again,
Who formed the sacred circle of our home.

And when you reach that shore,
Each kiss I press upon you now,
Deposit on the pinions of the wind,
And those I love and honor and adore
Will feel my kisses carried to their brow.

Ah, flowers, you may fare through,
Conserving still, perhaps, your native hue;
Yet, far from Fatherland, heroic loam
To which you owe your life,
The perfume will be gone from you;
For aroma is your soul; it cannot roam
Beyond the skies which saw it born, nor e'er forget



Monday, June 4, 2007

Song of Maria Clara

Song Of Maria Clara

For the original Spanish version, see Canto de Maria Clara

Sweet are the hours in one's own Native Land,
All there is friendly o'er which the sun shines above;
Vivifying is the breeze that wafts over her fields;
Even death is gratifying and more tender is love.

Ardent kissed on a mother's lips are at play,
On her lap, upon the infant child's awakening,
The extended arms do seek her neck to entwine,
And the eyes at each other's glimpse are smiling.

It is sweet to die in one's own Native Land,
All there is friendly o'er which the sun shines above;
And deathly is the breeze for one without.


Sunday, June 3, 2007

Sa Kabataang Pilipino-Tagalog version of A La Juventud Filipina


For the English translation, see To the Philippine Youth

For the original version, see A la Juventud Filipino


Itaas ang iyong
Malinis na noo
Sa araw na ito,
Kabataang Pilipino!
Igilas mo na rin ang kumikinang mong
Mayamang sanghaya
Magandang pag-asa ng Bayan kong Mutya!

Makapangyarihang wani’y lumilipad,
At binibigyang ka ng muning mataas,
Na maitutulad ng ganap na lakas,
Mabilis na hangin, sa kanyang paglipad,
Malinis na diwa, sa likmuang hangad.

Ikaw ay bumaba
Na taglay ang ilaw
Ng sining at agham
Sa paglalabanan,
Bunying kabataan,
At iyong kalagiun ang gapos mong iyang
Tanikalang bakal na kinatalian
Ng matulain mong waning kinagisnan.

Ikaw na lagi nang pataas nag lipad,
Sa pakpak ng iyong Mayamang pangarap,
Na iyong Makita sa Ilimpong ulap
Ang lalong matamis
Na mag tulaing pinakananais,
Ng higit ang sarap
Kaysa “ambrosia” at “nectar” na awagas
Ng mga bulaklak.

Ikaw na may tinig
Na buhat sa langit,
Kaagaw sa tamis
Na kay Filomenang Malinis na hiomig,
Sa gabing tahimik
Ay pinaparam mo ang sa taong sakit,
Ikaw, na ang batong sukdulan ng tigas
Sa lakas ng iyong diwa’y nagagawad
Ng buhay at gilas,
At ang alaalang makislap
Ay nabibigayan ng kamay mong masikap
Ng buhay na walang masasabing wakes.

At ikaw, na siyang
Sa may iba’t ibang
Balani ni Febong kay Apelas mahal,
Gayundin sa lambong ng katalagahan,
Na siayng sa guhit ng pinsel mong tanga’y
Nakapaglilipat sa kayong alinman;

Hayo na’y tumakbo! Sapagka’t ang banal
Na ningas ng wani’y nais maputungan
Kayong naglalama’y,
At maipamansag ng tambuling tangan,
Saan man humanggan,
Ang ngalan ng tao, sa di matulusang
Lawak ng palibot na nakasasaklaw.

Malwalhating araw,
Ito, Pilipinas, sa lupang tuntungan!
Ang Lumikha’y dapat na pasalamatan,
Dahilan sa kanyang mapagmahal,
Na ikaw’y pahatdan.


Saturday, June 2, 2007

To the Philippine Youth-English translation of A La Juventud Filipina

For Tagalog translation, see Sa Kabataang Pilipino

For the original Spanish version, see A la Juventud Filipino

To the Philippine Youth
Unfold, oh timid flower!
Lift up your radiant brow,
This day, Youth of my native strand!
Your abounding talents show
Resplendently and grand,
Fair hope of my Motherland!

Soar high, oh genius great,
And with noble thoughts fill their mind;
The honor's glorious seat,
May their virgin mind fly and find
More rapidly than the wind.

Descend with the pleasing light
Of the arts and sciences to the plain,
Oh Youth, and break forthright
The links of the heavy chain
That your poetic genius enchain.

See that in the ardent zone,
The Spaniard, where shadows stand,
Doth offer a shining crown,
With wise and merciful hand
To the son of this Indian land.

You, who heavenward rise
On wings of your rich fantasy,
Seek in the Olympian skies
The tenderest poesy,
More sweet than divine honey;

You of heavenly harmony,
On a calm unperturbed night,
Philomel's match in melody,
That in varied symphony
Dissipate man's sorrow's blight;

You at th' impulse of your mind
The hard rock animate
And your mind with great pow'r consigned
Transformed into immortal state
The pure mem'ry of genius great;

And you, who with magic brush
On canvas plain capture
The varied charm of Phoebus,
Loved by the divine Apelles,
And the mantle of Nature;

Run ! For genius' sacred flame
Awaits the artist's crowning
Spreading far and wide the fame
Throughout the sphere proclaiming
With trumpet the mortal's name
Oh, joyful, joyful day,
The Almighty blessed be
Who, with loving eagerness
Sends you luck and happiness.