Tomorrow I take up my gun in the hope that it will afford others the right to lay their weapons down. Tomorrow a republic will be still born and we premature soldiers will cradle the corpse in a futile manger. I go to my death willingly, because it is easier to face death than to live in a world without justice.
And yet....I doubt.
In this final hour I falter. I see my friends, rather, my followers. Men in their prime; the greatest minds, the purest hearts. They will stare into empty glasses of brandy and see their mortality staring back at them. For my part, it is worth it. My beliefs are my own and I do not fear the coming of the dawn- but for them my mind is in tumult. Is there any telling what one of them might do if he were to live to be an old man? Can the world bear to lose such poets and scholars? I answer my own question- the world can always afford to lose poets and scholars. They are like perennials in the Luxembourg gardens- a fresh bouquet will turn up a year hence.
My comrades are more than just poets and scholars- they are men of action. The world can never afford to lose that rare sort.
And yet they follow me to their own demise. Do they see it? Do they understand what it is they are dying for? I know they would tell me, "Yes, we know all about it. Long live the republic. Cheers!" I know they think I am inhuman. That I am harsh. That my affections come hard won, if at all. Do they die for France? Or to win my approval?
Tomorrow I will watch men and boys die and know it was I who planted the seed of revolution in their brains. It was I who coaxed them into death- admonishing those who worried about the whys and wherefores. For France! For freedom!
For the abstract....for the unattainable....for a future that neither we, nor anyone else, will likely ever know.
I take fathers, brothers, sons, and lovers to the grave with me. Will the world notice the sacrifice?
Or the Lord forgive me the men I've taken who might have been great?
And yet....I doubt.
In this final hour I falter. I see my friends, rather, my followers. Men in their prime; the greatest minds, the purest hearts. They will stare into empty glasses of brandy and see their mortality staring back at them. For my part, it is worth it. My beliefs are my own and I do not fear the coming of the dawn- but for them my mind is in tumult. Is there any telling what one of them might do if he were to live to be an old man? Can the world bear to lose such poets and scholars? I answer my own question- the world can always afford to lose poets and scholars. They are like perennials in the Luxembourg gardens- a fresh bouquet will turn up a year hence.
My comrades are more than just poets and scholars- they are men of action. The world can never afford to lose that rare sort.
And yet they follow me to their own demise. Do they see it? Do they understand what it is they are dying for? I know they would tell me, "Yes, we know all about it. Long live the republic. Cheers!" I know they think I am inhuman. That I am harsh. That my affections come hard won, if at all. Do they die for France? Or to win my approval?
Tomorrow I will watch men and boys die and know it was I who planted the seed of revolution in their brains. It was I who coaxed them into death- admonishing those who worried about the whys and wherefores. For France! For freedom!
For the abstract....for the unattainable....for a future that neither we, nor anyone else, will likely ever know.
I take fathers, brothers, sons, and lovers to the grave with me. Will the world notice the sacrifice?
Or the Lord forgive me the men I've taken who might have been great?