Be not worried, my love, if my verse sounds melancholic,
if I exchange the pen for the gun
and the quiescence of our home for the hurly-burly at the front.
Perhaps, tomorrow, the pen of your poet
will spill forth no lines anymore.
That’s why I write so fast that my fingers
bleed on the pen.
Perhaps, my love, I shall bite the dust in the field,
with a remembrance
of your lovely smile
and the radiance
of your face.
Then you’ll weep for a sun that went down to rise no more.