I once saw a billow,

Rising above the throng,

It’s turbid hue polluted by,

The clouds of dust,

And the noxious gases of anguish below.

Of anguish! Let it be known that,

Bravery made its way up to this billow too.

The wind hastily swept it onward,

As if trying to hush up,

To sweep man’s folly under the rug.

Yet this billow was resilient,

Brought forth into being by the tunnel of a barrel,

Flaunting its proud plumage at the indignation of authority,

It was more than mere folly;

Unique among the volley.

It transcended the skies,

Beyond the frequency of any partisan’s cries.

O spirit of silence!

Grit your teeth and take no more!

Dissipate not into the environment!

Recoup and re-gather,

And amass to charge another day.

I beg thee, dearest billow,

As you float above the royal guards’ pikes,

Always rising, never descending,

Please consider whom you abandon!

All the world’s in rage today,

And you – aloof in the heavens,

At least you can watch the dead souls rise from that lofty position.

If only God let you wield the tongue we so readily abuse,

Perhaps you could direct the battle-plans,

Of those narrow alleyways teeming with rag-clad ants,

All for want of bread.

Were you not born from hate, O bloom?

Then continue to linger,

For tis’ be a spectacle to see man in the making,

His insatiable spirit for revolt against powers that be,

Manifested in bloodshed and agony.

O omniscient billow,

Your cousins conceived from grapeshot rise too,

Artificial lives wafting amid very real death.

But beware wise billow!

Your nook is not so secure!

For amongst your ever-reproducing brethren,

Amongst the daunting marches and those deadly charges,

Heads impaled on lances and women cheering on rooftops,

The contender of your throne is increasingly elevating,

Ready to usurp thou, my observant billow.

The spirit of human toil,

Congealed blood still shimmering spilt from all sides,

Sweat pouring profusely through the defenders’ steel helmets,

And unrestrained tears gushing out the ducts of well-fed bourgeoisie,

Be it gravity or be it fate,

All amass together in a hodgepodge of humanity,

All evaporate from the miniature valleys,

Amid the grimy hills of cobblestone,

And rain down with a force so hard,

That shall blow you away, perched puff;

So that our actions here shall be remembered,

Because our names will long be forgotten,

Yet our deeds transcend through time,

And now we push ever-on,

With a rousing, “Viva la liberty!”

Here, at the Bastille.

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