Carregueu-me bé la pila
que he de fer molta claror,
asseguda en branquilló
que és cosa que molt s’estila.

Ja ve la fosca i, tot d’una,
encenc el meu fanal verd,
instal·lada prop d’un gerd
per engelosir la lluna.

Sóc un estel de la terra;
si mà incivil em desterra
i em reclou dintre d’un got,

m’apagaré de seguida,
i que la mà entossudida
em torni a encendre si pot.

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.