by Miguel de Unamuno

    Translated by Lillian Jean Stafford and William Stafford

    It is night， in my study.

    The deepest solitude¹； I hear the steady

    shudder² in my breast

    ——for it feels all alone，

    and blanched³ by my mind——

    and I hear my blood

    with even murmur⁴

    fill up the silence.

    You might say the thin stream

    falls in the waterclock and fills the bottom.

    Here， in the night， all alone， this is my study；

    the books don't speak；

    my oil lamp

    bathes these pages in a light of peace，

    light of a chapel⁵.

    The books don't speak；

    of the poets， the meditators， the learned，

    the spirits drowse；

    and it is as if around me circled

    cautious death.

    I turn at times to see if it waits，

    I search the dark，

    I try to discern among the shadows

    its thin shadow，

    I think of heart failure，

    think about my strong age； since my fortieth year

    two more have passed.

    Toward a looming⁶ temptation

    here， in the solitude， the silence turns me——

    the silence and the shadows.

    And I tell myself： "Perhaps when soon

    they come to tell me

    that supper awaits，

    they will discover a body here

    pallid⁷ and cold

    ——the thing that I was， this one who waits——

    just like those books quiet and rigid⁸，

    the blood already stopped，

    jelling in the veins⁹，

    the chest silent

    under the gentle light of the soothing¹⁰ oil，

    a funeral lamp.

    I tremble to end these lines

    that they do not seem

    an unusual testament¹¹，

    but rather a mysterious message

    from the shade beyond，

    lines dictated¹² by the anxiety

    of eternal life.

    I finished them and yet I live on.

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