I stare up at you,
as you hold me,
in your lap.

I mutter a half-hearted apology,
and I tell you to
please stop crying

because what can be better,
than exactly this?
Me in your arms.

your hands flinch,
under my blood,
warm like your embrace.

And i smile in confusion,
when you sob,
as you drag your hands over my eyes.

You say something,
about peace, and rest,
and death.

I'm sorry.
I thought death was
the loss of your hands in mine.

Am I still a martyr,
if I die not for my land,
but what forever kept me landed?

Whether I dig it up,
or drink it down,
isn't love all love?