L’homme sur la croix

This comes a little late, I know Remembrance Day was on Monday – but I just finished it up, and I figure somebody out there might want to read it, even if it’s a couple days after the fact. I wrote it for my French history class. I was just thinking about war, and how horrible it must be, and how life might be when you get back from it. I have no idea really, since I was never there, but sometimes I think it’s worth it just to try and figure it out from someone else’s point of view. Anyways, Remembrance Day always makes me sad, especially when they air the ceremonies on TV with the veterans standing in their crisp military uniforms, with medals on their chests, or sitting in wheelchairs, looking up at the memorial downtown while the guards march back and forth. Yesterday I watched a little bit of it. Snow was falling softly from the sky, whirling in gentle flakes onto the shoulders of the men and women watching, and it was solemn and beautiful. When there’s so much emotion in something, it can never be anything but beautiful – and horrible, and painful. But beautiful, too.
Here’s my poem. I hope you like it.
__________________________
Je suis assis sur la croix
Mes vêtements ne ferai rien
Avant l’hiver si grave, si froid;
Peut-être je va mourir ici
En regardant les gens, si petits,
Endormi dans leurs lits.
Comment pourrais-je fermé les yeux
Quand, dans ma tête,
Brûle cette feu?
Je regarde le soleil
Et les petits gens qui se reveil;
Rien de feux dans leurs têtes
Tout petit, comme des petits bêtes;
Je suis assis sur la croix
Dans l’air, sur l’église, tellement belle
Je tourne, je pousse l’échelle
Bien; maintenant, je dois sauter.
Je souviens, quand j’était petit,
J’avait un illusion de la paix
J’ai penser que,
Rien ne va jamais me arriver;
C’était un temps si simple
Nous avons jouer;
La guerre était un jeu.
Jouer avec nos mains, comme des fusils,
Si amusant; si facile.
Maintenant, rien est facile,
Mais ici, en haut de l’église,
C’est calme. Docile.
Je panse pas que je veut sauter
Je veut attendre la mort
Lentement.
En regardant la soleil, les oiseaux,
Les couleurs dans le ciel
Si belles, comme elles était peinturer là
Par un pinceau.
Et touts les petits gens,
Qui, en bas,
Luis aussi, attend.
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About thecellarboy

17. I write, play music, and have a cat that likes to bang his head against doors until they open. View all posts by thecellarboy

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