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Arc De Triomphe - The Unknown Soldier
Part 1
Ici repose un soldat Francois mort pour la patrie
(1914-1918).
Beneath this flame there is no tomb,
no ashes grace that empty bed,
yet on it burns. Patiently
waiting to receive its worthy Patron,
The Unknown Soldier.
This Arch, these sculptures, these great works
of Art - all for Him, whilst His body
stays lost in the annals of time.
And here I stand, among it all,
a symbol for the modern age,
where kings look down and angels weep,
in this the Hall of Heroes.
Up I gaze and crane my neck to see,
the sea of roses. No rustle
stirs their stony slumber, silent
and cold as the soldiers grave.
Down again my eyes descend,
drawn to the living heart of this
empty tomb. The flame that burns
accusing heat and probes the hearts
of gawping crowds - passes through me.
I shudder in spite of myself.
Who am I to disturb the rest
of a man whom history impressed?
I sigh and take my leave, pushing
through the crowd with single purpose.
I must escape this dreadful place
where dead men linger without decay.
But stop. Who’s this that blocks my path?
An ancient Man with fierce grey eyes,
“What is it you want with me?”
A toothy grin extends across His face,
His stare pins me where I stand.
“Stay a while and hear my tale
of that unknown warrior.”
Mesmerised – I can but listen,
in this, my marbled concrete prison.
“Alas”, says He, “Let me begin,
a wondrous tale of death, and sin.”
Part 2
“Our Hero hailed not far from here,
in Notre Dam He spent His early years.
Not a warrior from birth,
but a Painter’s Boy.
Each evening He would race from school
to catch His Father working.
Left and right that brush would swirl
and piece by piece reveal the World.
His Mother died in childbirth.
A wondrous Girl who loved this Earth
and looked past frailty or cruelty,
to see what we could really be.
What would she think to see Her Son
laid to rest in a soldier’s tomb?
Or not, as the case may be
since the grave lies empty.
But that is all yet before us.
For now, our Hero is young and just,
with innocent and eager eyes
He views this town, the great Paris.
Where strutting steeples touch the sky
and jeer at passers-by, who stand and stare.
As if, to look, that sense of awe
would linger on slightly more.
Oh, how He dreamt to make His mark,
like those buildings where angels hark.
How cruel is fate, that this - a Boy -
with pure intent, can be corrupted?
And history re-paint that
Artist’s Son, as a soldier?
But this is the tale I’m doomed to tell,
so move in close and listen well.”
“But wait!” I exclaim, unable to
contain myself any longer.
“How is it that you know this Man,
that history maimed and time forgot?”
The twinkling of His eyes grows dark.
He looks at me and in baritone mocks,
“Do not rush Me, Heaven forfend!
Truth lies in the journey, my friend.”
Part 3
“Alas! It is Human fate, that
we do not maintain our happy state.
And so it was with our young Hero,
His Father passed, it could not last,
leaving Him cold, broken and alone.
That city had been full of promise,
but once you scratch beneath the surface,
a living hell, a raging furnace.
The bailiffs came and stripped Him bare.
His Father’s work lay in disrepair,
Those specks of beauty which had once
held Him in awe - were auctioned off
for nothing, pittance, pennies, poor.
And as He wondered those desolate streets
He’d shout and scream at passers-by
“My Art is dead, so watch, I die!”
But please remember what I said,
by fate we are easily led.
And so it proves with this young Man,
who, when His situation seemed so bad,
was met with opportunity for
strength, respect, prestige, honour,
justice, liberty courage and glory.
That Great War (if great it be)
was, by then, no mystery.
When Europe calls, France must answer.
Soldiers are required to master
the “enemy”, or so they’re called
(to you and Me, but not abroad.)
His life in tatters, hope ran dry,
our Hero chose to enlist, not die.
“You make it sound a terrible
thing to die in servitude to one’s country,”
say I, to the Old Man, perplexed.
He replies with a sad smile
and a grave look clouds His countenance.
“Make of it what you will, my friend,
I am here to speak, not to commend.”
Part 4
“But now to return to our tale,
our Hero’s luck had run stale.
To fight or die, that was His lot.
Not a spot was on that uniform
which lay fresh and crisp on His bed
as He tried it on for the first time.
But when He looked in the mirror,
a soldier’s gaze returned - the sinner.
Now, I know what you expect,
that our Hero will have trekked and trekked
following His feet across the globe
on a journey of self-discovery.
But alas, this was not to be.
Paris born and Paris bred,
sometimes we cannot escape
our fate, but watch as destiny takes shape.
The city clung like a disease
which dragged our Hero to His knees
and sucked the life out of His soul.
Germans? Near the capitol?
It must be defended!
No cost is too great, or too small,
for this, the home of our fair France.
Dig the trenches, man the helm,
the time has come to fight for the realm!
Fire, fire everywhere! Buildings, boulders, bridges, bodies.
But worst of all - the smell. That stench
of death that perforates the nose,
and eyes, and ears, and mouth, and soul.
There, among the dirt and grime,
our Hero fought and soldiered on.
Through wounded eyes He saw the ploy.
The living legend, the Artist’s Boy.
Who can say that they were there
to see the blood fly through the air?
Or taste the cries of dying men,
over and over and over again?
Not you, or Me, or those that claim to see
this tomb for what really is.
They will never, never know
the pains of war, that stick and grow.
Part 5
How long was He stationed there?
Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes?
Who can say? It would be a
simpler task to count the screams
than count the seconds ticking by.
“Lesser” men would turn and run,
but not our “Hero”, our “Man”, our “Boy,”
or so He felt - the captain’s “Toy.”
“Listen maggots, time to go
over the top and face our foe!
Some of you will not return,
but for those who trip, or fall, or burn,
will live forever in our hearts,
not to mention in the arts.
Immortality is not cheap,
it costs one body, plus eternal sleep.”
His heart pounding, moth run dry,
our Hero stops, prepares to die.
Then takes one step, and another,
but not the third. He cannot bring Himself
to take that leap, until the man
behind Him kicks His feet forwards.
Everyone is silent.
The calm before the storm.
It’s strange how quickly violence descends,
faster than anyone ever intends.
One man fires, shots returned, then - bang!
People running - what, where, when, why?
Nobody knows, or cares, or gives a damn
so long as they get far away.
Somewhere in this frantic struggle,
our Hero falls and hits the rubble.
Blinking, He stares at eyes glazed open.
Devoid of life - nothing to hope in.
A cold face - twisted - fixed in pain,
or maybe laughter? It’s difficult to tell.
Shouldn’t He feel...disgusted? Revolted?
But no. Nothing. Nothing but pity.
Looking at those eyes looking back
that haven’t really looked at all.
“A soldier’s death is what you had,
I bet your family were glad.”
Part 6
It’s funny, what thoughts transgress
when the mind of man is in distress.
It may sound strange to you and Me
but revelations began to break free.
The corpse starred back, and starred, and starred,
and starred. “How could it be that one
like he was left to rot by his
own country? Here, of all places...”
So were His thoughts. Lying there. Still.
Bones filled with an empty chill.
Whilst all around Him the world broke.
He could not move, but was transfixed
by the dead man’s eyes, that mirrored -
or seemed to mirror - the darkest
depths of His own tired soul.
His gaze was not under His control.
So still, He would not move a muscle.
In amidst the heat and rubble
our Hero vanished, lost, was gone
among the annals of time.
Bullets flew, and bounced, and branded
men whose bodies could have landed
on our Hero, but didn’t,
just fell, noiselessly, to the ground.
The battle ended, you may have guessed,
but the soldiers were not laid to rest,
just left there, face-down, or face-up,
it really didn’t matter much.
The “valiant” dead are all the same,
lifeless, and who is really to blame?
Our Hero only still drew breath
and struggled to justify all this death.
With a heavy heart He rose and saw
the filthy meadows of bloody war.
Missing. Presumed dead. What should He do?
No Father, no Mother, no Siblings
were left to mourn His passing.
The world was all before Him.
“I’ll roam this Earth from North to South
and spread my tale by word of mouth.”
Part 7
“That’s it, You’re finished?” I say,
unable to believe my ears.
“This Man, this soldier, this legend -
skirted his duties, turned tail and ran?
What, where, why, when and how? Besides
You haven’t even got to what
compelled Him to tell His tale
over, and over, and over again.”
“So many questions, so little time.
I cannot answer all with rhyme.
But would you really want Me too?
The Truth must come from within you.
What you want, I will not give,
art cannot tell you how to live.
That, my friend, is for you to find,
and you will, if you open your mind.”
He goes to leave - I go to catch Him.
His tale has not satisfied my
thirst for knowledge. Each question leads
to another question, and I
must not leave before I know what
it is I need to know. He turns
around. Our eyes meet, and lock.
Then He’s gone behind the rock.
“Wait!” I scream, rapidly running
towards the place I saw Him leave.
The crowd closes-in, I cannot breathe,
just push my way, inch by inch,
to where I saw that wise Old Man
- disappear! Vanished! Gone!
I hunt and hunt to no avail.
He left without a single trail.
As I leave that place, I glance back
at the burning flame - the symbol
of glory and fame - and smile.
The Unknown Soldier? Hah! Unknown indeed.
He was only unknown in deed.
But no matter, His soul lives on.
A happier and a wiser man
I rose the morrow morn.
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