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On the grass that covers the secluded
dwelling where your soul is waiting
in its cocoon of dust, the rain falls
from the sky and awakens a gentle

murmur. It is the enchanting song
of the ultimate mystery; it is the lullaby
of our last love, the sweet murmuring
of our Mother Earth, tired of giving birth

to men who then come back to rest
in her dark bosom. The poor thing feels
that in her womb past sorrows merge

with the future, and she sorrowfully
cradles her dead, as she bows her head
to those whose pain is yet to come.

Salamanca. 29 November 1910.

Miguel de Unamuno
Translation by Armand F. Baker

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