This are my lyrics, my story. If you see them or near elsewhere, please tell me, thanks. Who am I? I look at my hands, small, dirty, my bare feet in a blackish mire. A child. A boy. I’m eight, I think. I clean a stable. scrape, and sweat, it stinks. a pig, three hens, a rooster— not much. In the shack, my father, that brute, that filthy bastard, yells at my mother and hits her for no reason. as always. as always. When it’s not me, it’s her. When it’s not her, it’s me. He hits me. He hits her. For no reason. And I do not cry. I never cry. I am full of rage, rage, but I can do nothing. that filthy swine has all power over us, we are his things, his property. He could kill us if he wanted, but we, we must endure, say nothing, do nothing. But I do not cry. I’m twelve, mother is dead under the blows of that animal I cannot bring myself to call father. I do not cry, I look him straight in the eyes. And I clench my teeth. It drives him into a rage, a good excuse to beat me senseless. I never cry. jI grow up, I harden, I fight with the other boys in the streets, I take my rage out on them. I do not cry, I am big, I am strong. I never cry. And now he is afraid of me. I’m sixteen, It’s conscription for Napoleon. We’re going to fight, I’m made for this, I’m good at this, with my rage in my gut. and at least I won’t have that useless man I cannot kill, on my back. We march, we fight. we march, we fight. The bayonet is what I prefer. A real beast, they say. Suicidal, that’s a fact. But beasts, I know them. They Never do what men allow themselves. I am a man. And I never cry. EI’m eighteen, And I am dying on a makeshift bed under a tent not far from a church or a German cathedral. It’s a slaughterhouse in there, screaming, shouting, the doctors cut, stitch up alive, but most often, they simply close the eyes of those already dead. And I cry. Mother, is that you? And I die. Mother. you’re here. Mother... You're here
