Children of Paradise
They were smiles, they were tears, They were laughter that sang like the birds. They were mornings beside the sea, Hearts of sorrow, hearts of light.
They were poems, they were wings, They were I love youās whispered by the stream. They were coffee, they were the small cafĆ©, They were strangers, with no flag to bear.
They were of Paris, they were of the provinces, Hearts of rain that made my heart ache. They were full of life, with the gaze of spring, Hearts that laughed while the heavens wept.
They were promises, they were becoming, They were far too young to have to leave. They were sons of East and sons of West, Children of Paradise ā children of the Bataclan.
They were French at heart, or citizens of all lands, They were the dew weeping beneath a shawl. They were budding blooms, they were songs, They were the sorrow that rises with dawn.
They were families, they were friends, They were what shimmers in the midnight sky. They were lovers, holding each other close, Two against tyranny, one against fear.
They were like you, they were like me, Not warriors ā yet they died in battle. They were hearts of love, hearts that beat, And will keep beating, even beneath the cross.
They were the friends I never knew, They were my homeland ā and yours too, I believe. They will remain Paris; Paris will remember. Forever their light shall burn.
They were called I love you, they were called youth, They were called poem, they were called tenderness. They were called sister, they were called brother, They were called child, they were called dream.
They were called joy, they were called peace, They were called, I think, the children of France. From every horizon, bearing every name, They were called love, they were called tomorrow.
They were called Jacques Brel, and perhaps Barbara, They were called the sky, they were called why. Here still lies the horror sleeping in the wood, That joins the eternal ā the innocent, I believe.
They were raised fists, they were our songs, Hearts clenched before the torturerās stare. They were hearts of carnations, flowers against guns, And to our grieving hearts, we weep for our friends.
For the innocent slain, yes, fallen to bullets, For the unknown soldier beneath the storm of fire ā If these are dead letters, hymns of sorrow, It is Verdunās plains knocking once again.
If they fell tonight, on this black Friday, The brothers of my land ā leaving us despair. My country, your culture was murdered, But you know ā my culture shall never die.
You, my country of MoliĆØre and Vinci, My country of Voltaire and Valmy, You, my country of Earth, my country Paris, You, my fallen land ā rise up, my country!
You, my country of light, my country of life, My literary homeland, my homeland of grief. You, my country, my brothers ā brother of my soul, As one loves their mother ā we love our home.
