Jean Chevalier was
A Parisian man.
He led a simple life,
He had no big plan.

'La Résistance'
In took he part,
He felt it was right
In his Parisian heart.

The German soldier smirked,
Strapped in his ranks,
He looked down at Jean
And fantasised war tanks.

Jean was stuck in the métro
Since about half past three,
His stomach was aching,
A cigarette needed he.

The German Soldier, however,
Breaking the 'law',
Lit one up and
Opened his enormous jaw.

His pink, beefy face
Took a long drag,
Jean clung to his country,
Clung to his flag.

Jean gasped for a cigarette,
The soldier saw in his eyes.
But Jean managed yet
To stay dignified.

The soldier whips out a fresh one,
For Jean, condescendingly.
But without batting an eyelid,
Jean declares:

*"Non, Merci."

I* am a soldier
I defend my Honour
I defend my owner?
I am a soldier
I am a holder
Of what am I the holder?
Of justice, of peace?
Or of a diplomatic *greed?
I am a soldier
I will get older
But in my head,
The war is never over**.

O mother!
It is I, I your son.
I never did outrun
the death waiting for me.
Destiny, Martyr to be…

O mother!
I thought of you only
when javelins pierced me.
The memory of your eyes.
Had made me smile in disguise.

O mother!
I lay there helplessly.
My friends could not help me.
But your prayer was enough.
It kept helping me stay tough.

O mother!
The blood kept boiling out.
I let out a low shout.
It was your blood after all,
ran off me like waterfall.

O mother!
With final hiccup I
drowned into darkest sky.
Now I’m sure you’re proud of me.
I know I made you happy.

O mother!
Is this not what you want?
Is it not what you crave?
Your martyr is taking your
Guidance with him to his grave.

O mother!

Behold her eyes burning with tears.
In place of him is now his gun.
Her heart sinks whatever comes near,
for she has lost her son.
Along she works for everyone,
who’s fatherless like her grandson.
She takes nothing but gives and gives.
And cares for everything that’s his.

No wonder none’s as proud as she.
But also bears the ache in heart.
It’s almost  fine but it’s no glee.
She is wrecked from the start.
The battlefield that snatched her son.
Remembers every scar and burn.
Smiles when the son of her son asks
to give up his life with no masks.

She lets him go, lets him go too.
She stares at his back as he leaves.
Falls with weakness, everything’s blue.
Lost everything but grieves.
Her hair goes gray, the tale gets old.
Grandson’s gone too, that’s left is cold.
She thinks back to the choice she made.
She’d thought wrong of it being an aid.

But life goes on and then death comes.
The peaceful sleep goes on and on.
No hurt, no pain, no thunder drums.
Every lament is gone.
She’s in the grave and so the men.
She’s proud of them and smiles again.
A soldier son is no regret.
She’s a proud mother with no’one left.