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?