If my country is going to war, yet again...
I want to let you know that I won't kiss you.
No, at least not in vain.
For my kisses does not soothe,
rather they burn.
Like that of a tropical summer afternoon.
I won't even touch your hand.
No, at least not with mine.
For my hands does not heal,
rather they hurt.
Like they wouldn't know you are not enemy.
If my country is already at war, yet again...
I won't indulge myself to hug you.
No, at least not with this body,
a body that could possibly fail and die.
For my body is one that refuses to live,
in and for a land wherein birds cannot fly.
I won't help myself and look into your eyes.
No, at least not this time.
For my eyes are a pair that refuses to look,
at a bloodbath that I've only read in books.
So if my country goes to war, time and again...
I want to let you know, that no...
I won't kiss you in vain, for I will kiss you
until they drag my body and take me away.
Until drops of my blood are flowing in rivers,
lagoons, farmlands, grass and grains.
I will touch your hand with the promise of sweet victory.
With the news that my mountains
and seas are yours to roam free.
I won't hug you with this body,
but with my bodies of water and seas.
Until you are embraced by the wild waves,
may you taste their liberty.
I won't look at you with my bloodshot eyes,
but with the promise that you will never again
see blood, and with the eternal sunlight
over our vast fields and blue skies.
