All those who give up the rising, sandy, uneasy and sun-exposed path* are deserters. Those who exchange their immortal soul for perishable gold, hard gold, are deserters. Those who give up their destiny of heroes to blend in the mass of zeros, they are also deserters, and of the worst kind. But he who follows is not a deserter, oh no!
*Jean de La Fontaine, The Coach and the Fly
The Deserter
song by Boris Vian 1870
Mr. President
I write you a letter
That you may read
If you have time
I have just received
My military papers
To go to war
Before Wednesday evening
Mr. President
I don’t want to do it
I’m not on earth
To kill poor people
It’s not to upset you
I must tell you
My decision is made
I’m going to desert
Since I was born
I saw my father die
I saw my brothers go
And cry my children
My mother has suffered so much
That she is in her grave
And makes fun of the bombs
And mocks the verses
When I was a prisoner
My wife was stolen
My soul was stolen
And all my dear past
Tomorrow morning
I will close my door
In the face of dead years
I will go on the roads
I will beg for my life
On the roads of France
From Brittany to Provence
And I will tell the people
Refuse to obey
Refuse to do it
Don’t go to war
Refuse to leave
If blood must be donated
Go give your own
You are good apostle
Mr President
If you sue me
Notify your police officers
That I will not have weapons
And they can shoot
Listen
In 1914-18, the number of people shot for example exceeds 600 out of 2600 death sentences.
Be Careful!
Make no mistake. Pacifists who refuse to fight are not deserters. The real deserters are the ranks that stay behind and send the young people to be slaughtered in the front line. Deserting the war, refusing lethal discipline is acting like a hero. That’s why we are shot.
In peacetime, there are dozens of ways to be a hero. We see it every day. Denouncing the ignominies, abuses, injustices, that is worthy and useful to others. Issuing alerts, highlighting inconsistencies, and spreading the law of the heart make perpetrators and victims grow.
Twelve “No”
I’m not a hero, my mistakes stick to meDaniel Balavoine
I’m not a zero, I don’t have a number on my back
I’m not a syrup, I drink cider at the aperitif
I am not a toro, I was born under the sign of Gemini
I’m not a Pierrot, Colombine left too early
I’m not a tarot, I’m a Mat well crazy as it should be
I am not a leek, my carrots are cooked in the oven
I’m not a brother, my brother is not my pole
I’m not a blackie, I don’t have the right skin color
I’m not a hobo, I have no way to go
I’m not a crook, I am not heard on the radio
I’m not a cuckoo I’m sorry to be crazy too
xs, Tribute to Daniel Balavoine, this hero
Listen
by Daniel Balavoine
by Johnny Halliday
The Sleeper of the Valley
It’s a green hole where a river sings
Madly clinging to the herbs of rags
Of silver; where the sun, from the proud mountain,
Luit: it is a small valley that foam of rays.
A young soldier, open mouth, bare head,
And the neck bathed in fresh blue watercress,
Sleeps; he is lying in the grass, under the cloud,
Pale in her green bed where the light rains.
Feet in the gladioli, he sleeps. Smiling as
If a sick child smiled, he took a nap:
Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.
Perfumes do not make his nostrils shiver;
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his chest
Quiet. He has two red holes on the right side.
Arthur Rimbaud, October 1870
Ballad of the Hangmen
Human brothers who live after us
Have hearts against us hardened,
For, if pity have of us poor,
God will have sooner of you thanks.
You see us here attach five, six
When flesh, which we too have fed,
It is piçaIt has long been eaten and rotten,
And we bones, become ash and powder.
Our evil is not anyone cares:
But pray to God that he will absolve us all!
If brothers cry you, do not
To have scorn, whatever you did
By law. However, you know
That all men have not lost their common sense;
Excuse us, since we are in a trance,
To the son of the Virgin Mary,
May his grace not be for us quenched,
Saving us from the infernal lightning.
We are dead, soul does not mock us
But pray to God that he will absolve us all!
The rain has washed us clean,
And the sun dried up and blackened:
Pies, crows have eyes
And pulled out the beard and the ears.
Never no time we sit;
Then this, then that, as the wind changes,
To his pleasure without ceasing charie us,
More birds-beaked than cuttings.
Be not of our brotherhood;
But pray to God that he will absolve us all!
Prince Jesus, who above all else has mastered,
Keep Hell from having us lordship:
We have nothing to do with him, nothing to solve.
Men, here is no mockery;
But pray God that he will absolve us all.
François Villon,1489
You will not get through
You won’t get through you who ran the girls
Young man whose heart I saw beating naked
When I tore your shirt and you didn’t
You won’t get through old shackle player
That a shell cut through the side in two
For once he had a great game
And you the tattooed old Legionnaire
You will survive for a long time without face, without eyes
We go God knows where it is from the bad dream
We’ll slide along the line of fire
Somewhere it’s starting to be out of the game
The men there are waiting for the next
Roll away rolls the train of last lights
The sleepy soldiers that your dance shakes
Let their forehead bend and bend their neck
It smells like tobacco, wool and sweat
How to look at you without seeing your destiny
Engaged to the earth and promised pains
The night lamp makes you of the color of tears
You move your legs
Already the stone thinks where your name is
Already you are only a name of gold on our places
Already the memory of your loves is fading
Already you are no more than to have perished
Louis Aragon
following his experience as a military doctor in 1918
Listen
Is this How Men Live?
By Louis Aragon, 1955
It’s all about the decor
Change bed change body
What good is it because it is still
Me who betrays myself
Me who drags and scatters
And my shadow undresses
In the arms of similar girls
Where I thought I’d find a country
Is this how men live
And their kisses far away follow them.
Light heart changing heart heavy heart
The time to dream is short
What should be done with my nights
What should I do with my days
I had no love nor abode
Nowhere I live or die
I passed as the rumor
I fell asleep like noise
Is this how men live
And their kisses far away follow them
It was an unreasonable time
We had put the dead to table
We made castles of sand
We thought the wolves were dogs
Everything changed pole and shoulder
Was the play funny or not
Me if I mistook my role
It was not to understand anything
Is this how men live
And their kisses far away follow them
In the district Hohenzollern
Between the Saar and the barracks
Like the flowers of alfalfa
Lola’s breasts were blooming
She had a heart of swallow
On the couch in the brothel
I came to lie down near her
In the hiccups of the pianola
Is this how men live
And their kisses far away follow them
The sky was grey with clouds
He stole wild geese
Who cried death on the way
Above the houses of the docks
I saw them through the window
Their sad song entered my being
And I thought I recognized
Rainer Maria Rilke
Is this how men live
And their kisses far away follow them
She was brown, she was white
Her hair fell on her hips
And the week and Sunday
She opened her arms to all
She had eyes of desire
She worked with valour
For a gunner from Mainz
Who never came back
Is this how men live
And their kisses far away follow them
There are other soldiers in town
And at night the civilians come up
Put some mascara back on your eyelashes
Lola that you will soon go
Another glass of liquor
It was in April at five o’clock
In the morning, that in your heart
A dragon plunged his knife
Is this how men live
And their kisses far away follow them
Like achieved suns
Listen
To Desert Hatred
To desert hatred, banish indifference, give birth to love, sing deliverance, so that one day which is not far away death will be a change of place. A passage. A milestone to be crossed. A new Eden to conquer.
The fear of death is not honorable. It is a sign of misunderstanding. If we are only matter, like the Archons, rotting is forever. Nothing of us can remain when we are lying in the coffin. I want to be buried standing. And without the earth, since I’m leaving it.
When the time comes, not to run away, but to grow up again, I must go. It must be so. But in the way I choose. Standing in my kitchen, bare feet on the tile, eyes turned to what awaits us, head protected from thoughts, ideas, reasons to live a little longer, I will light the fire.
No lighter. no need to match. It will be enough to increase the heat in my body a little. Go up again. It will be enough to block my inspir. Yes, no more breathing!
Soul Library
- Koans
- Ten Blue Tigers
- Indian Summer
- The Multicolored Cow
- Jung And The Soul
- Jung And The Divine Madness
- Einstein’s Faith
- Deserting Hatred
- The Last Words Of Krishnamurti
- The Will of Baltimore
- The Morning Of The Magicians
- The Light of Mandela
- The Inner Gold
- Tribute to Lao Surlam
Image taken from the article The Last Words Of Krishnamurti