There was a big crowd at the Police Station.
Doubtful soldiers of the city were collecting weapon.
Upset citizens, in harmony with the order of the martial law, Deposited their shotguns, rifles, pistols and cartridges
Like vow-offerings at some holy shrine.
On the table lay the saint”s hand like a flower.
Only I, disobeying the military order, turned a mild rebel.
Openly I am returning to my room,
Yet with me rests a dreadful weapon–
My heart. I didn”t surrender it.