In possession of all my mental faculties,
Mr. President,
I’m writing you this letter,
which I hope you’ll read.
The draft notice here
tells me plainly
that I’m to go to war
this coming Monday.
But I’m not here,
Mr. President,
to kill people
more or less like me.
I’m not mad at you
- let me say that in passing -
but I feel that I’ve made up my mind
and that I’m going to desert.
Since I was born,
I’ve had nothing but trouble,
and the children I’ve raised
have cried together with me;
my mum and dad
are six feet under now,
and they won’t give a damn
about war.
When I was being held a prisoner,
somebody stole
my wife and my past,
my best years.
Tomorrow, I’ll get up
and I’ll shut the door
on the dead season,1
and I’ll head off.
I’ll live on handouts
on the streets of Spain,
France and Britain,2
and I’ll shout to everyone
not to leave anymore,
not to follow orders
to go dying
for who cares who.
So, if blood
will be needed at all costs,
go give yours,
if that amuses you.
And you can tell your people,
if they’re going to come look for me,
that they may as well shoot me:
I have no weapons on me.
1. That is, he’ll leave his past behind.2. This could be either Bretagna {Brittany, in northwestern France} or (Gran) Bretagna {(Great) Britain}.