the slow art of breathing bitter

When I'll Lose Myself

The day when I'll lose myself—

All lost, dreary, and tread

in the sweltering sands of the frantic and perpetual battles

of my half-burned youth;

The day you cannot hear my sighs and gasps anymore

except for the bloodthirsty swords and screams of agony,

I'll return in blood-stained clothes

as a brave warrior with my head held high—

A warrior who has fought blindly in the mist,

In the cold dar of vengeance.

Now my heart's aching,

my vision's becoming blank—

I couldn't see the flags of our victory

I- I couldn't hear the conch shells;

I could only see the warm blood and gore;

I could feel the blood coming out of my stomach,

the sword pierced in it—

the extreme pain and joy!

I'll return in the coffin, wrapped in tricolor.

My way of life will end soon.

And yet I'll utter:

"I'll never give up—never!"