I'm writing you a letter
that perhaps you will read
If you have the time.
I've just received
my call-up papers
to leave for the front
Before Wednesday night.
I do not want to go
I am not on this earth
to kill wretched people.
It's not to make you mad
I must tell you
my decision is made
I am going to desert.
Since I was born
I have seen my father die
I have seen my brothers leave
and my children cry.
My mother has suffered so,
that she is in her grave
and she laughs at the bombs
and she laughs at the worms.
When I was a prisoner
they stole my wife
they stole my soul
and all my dear past.
Early tomorrow morning
I will shut my door
on these dead years
I will take to the road.
I will beg my way along
on the roads of France
from Brittany to Provence
and I will cry out to the people:
Refuse to obey
refuse to do it
don't go to war
refuse to go.
If blood must be given
go give your own
you are a good apostle
If you go after me
warn your police
that I'll be unarmed
and that they can shoot.
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Comments about this poem (The Deserter by Boris Vian )
- Best endevor, hasmukh amathalal
- لماذا أحب وجهكِ ؟, Ashraf Elgmmal
- Shadow Of My Soul, Spiritwind Wood
- Better Than You, Bernedita Rosinha Pinto
- Taking From Us, Spiritwind Wood
- Father Son and Holy Ghost, Audre Lorde
- For The Last Time, Orlando Belo
- End in desert, hasmukh amathalal
- The Tears That You Cried, Spiritwind Wood
- Brittany Brit, Eve Carter
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Edgar Allan Poe
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