What I'm listening to...

or rather, what the sprogs were listening to a little while ago: as most nights, part of our bedtime routine is either LOML or me reading a story to Boo and Skibo (one each, short, usually at least one of Bob the Builder or Dora or Diego these days, unfortunately: but sometimes something more interesting like "Big Mama Makes the World") followed by me reading a poem or two and singing a song or two.

The past couple of nights (as often recently) Boo has asked for christmas carols, but she surprised me too by wanting "the quiet song that you sing to me" --- I finally figured out that she meant a song that I sing in French --- she doesn't realize it, but she is requesting an old anti-war protest song by Boris Vian!
It's a gorgeous gentle song, and I've loved it for years --- and now, Boo is growing up with it too:-)

Yours, in peace,
N.

Le Déserteur (The Deserter)

par (by) Boris Vian et (and) Harold Berg

Monsieur le Président, je vous fais une lettre, que vous lirez peut-être, si vous avez le temps. Je viens de recevoir mes papiers militaires pour partir à la guerre avant mercredi soir. Monsieur le Président je ne veux pas le faire, je ne suis pas sur terre pour tuer de pauvres gens. C'est pas pour vous fâcher, il faut que je vous dise, ma décision est prise, je m'en vais déserter. Depuis que je suis né, j'ai vu mourir mon père, j'ai vu partir mes frères, et pleurer mes enfants. Ma mère a tant souffert, qu'elle est dedans sa tombe, et se moque des bombes, et se moque des vers. Quand j'étais prisonnier on m'a volé ma femme, on m'a volé mon âme, et tout mon cher passé. Demain de bon matin, je fermerai ma porte au nez des années mortes j'irai sur les chemins. Je mendierai ma vie, sur les routes de France, de Bretagne en Provence, et je crierai aux gens: refusez d'obéir, refusez de la faire, n'allez pas à la guerre, refusez de partir. S'il faut donner son sang, allez donner le vôtre, vous êtes bon apôtre, monsieur le Président. Si vous me poursuivez prévenez vos gendarmes que je n'aurai pas d'armes et qu'ils pourront tirer.

Mr. President 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. Mr. President 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 Mr. President. If you go after me warn your police that I'll be unarmed and that they can shoot.