Charge all the phones, exit your homes, uncover the drums,
For we shall do this on our own,
As men unimpressed by archaic dooms.
Unsheathe the howls from the heavy wool,
We shall deal our passage with white & blue shawls,
We shall cry in plain gowns, fight with skullcaps.
Yes, we are the boys with the kites on the beaches,
Yes, we are the girls with the defiant smiles,
Spreading our thighs to the passage of the bourgeoisie.
But we are also the bespectacled men with constant intent,
And also the learned women with patient anger,
A pitiless sun has blinded us forward.
We keep our purpose in high spirits,
And we hide the cross as we open our books,
She shall well hear our rational racket.
In the forest of her life, we have counted ourselves.
It is the hollow of her life. We will stop when complete.
We march as one to the drum of her grit.
We will carry her out of the pit,
We will march her through the darkness,
We shall bring her home again.
Frédéric Benqué 