When the books sing
If you stay up really late,
and ignore everyone's hate
You can hear the stories unfold,
but the tales they tell are cold.
They sing songs of death and lies,
At the start is it happy,
then everybody dies.
If you stay up really late,
and ignore everyone's hate,
you can hear the stories unfold,
but the tales they tell are old.
They sing of ancient life,
of all the hard work,
of all the strife.
If you stay up really late,
and ignore everyone's hate,
you can hear the tales unfold,
but the stories they tell are sold.
They were made for francs,
not for the people,
but for the banks.
If you stay up really late,
And ignore everyone's hate,
you can tell the books are sad,
and the stories they tell are bad.
And yet still opened they are,
and I've read,
under the bar.
If you stay up really late,
and ignore everyone's hate,
you can hear the tales unwind,
The story of me, and my kind.
OK, a Combeferre poem, the "under the bar" thing is about jail, can you not picture 'Ferre reading calmly in a cell?