TO MY FRIENDS

When in the glass of my brief day
The sand runs out, and to my rest,
Where sleep the dead, I'm borne away,
Remember this my last behest.

Thrust my remains in none of those
Grim vaults that line the sullen walls,
In whose dread chambers, dark and close,
Our glorious sunlight never falls.

Seek me an open space below:
There, neath the sward make ye my bed,
Where sunbeams play, and breezes blow;
And flowers and shrubs there fragrance spread.

That I may feel —while time rolls on—
Around, above me, ever near,
The warm rays of my country's sun,
The sod of my Borinquen dear!