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If I Exchange The Pen For A Gun

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

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of your face.

Then you’ll weep for a sun that went down to rise no more.

                                                                                   

 

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