They'd bury my gaze
In the dust.
They'd rip the rose of smile
Off my lips.
I keep the first spring
In my chest.
I keep the first
Tear of joy.
They'd divorce me
From freedom.
My soul,
They'd plow my soul.
I defend
The sky in my eyes.
I defend
The ground on my hand.
My young fruits of joy
They'd cut.
Nightingales of songs
They'd shove into a wooden plough.
I won't give up
The sun in my eyes.
I won't give up
The bread on the palm of my hand.
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