Of the small war I sing,
of the brave children of not long ago
who fought on the beach
to save a sand castle
and its impassible bulwarks
which one wave was going to sweep away.
I was one of them: weapon in a sling,
carefully hidden in the citadel
we were waiting for
a Saracen troop
coming from the neighbouring coast
to attack our fortress.
A hundred yards away on the dune,
waiting for the fortunes
of war to smile on the victors,
waiting to be courted,
our pledged ones, our betrothed,
softly readied their hearts.
Suddenly the wild Armada
broke out onto our shore
with it's lances, its shields,
to commit forceful plundering
and even to steal away our Sabines,
more beautiful that theirs, indeed.
The battle was worthy of Homer,
and the defeat very bitter
for the foe, even though numerous,
whom we beat to a pulp,
who departed in total collapse,
routed and running for safety.
Yes, that horde of barbarians
that our fury tears to pieces
retreated with its ships,
taking hardly anything at all
as trophies, only two burst balls,
three rackets, and four hoops.
After the famous victory,
singing the tunes of "Sambre et Meuse"1
and of the Marseillaise, ho hum2,
we ran for the recompense
that the fair sex dishes out
to worn out little heroes.
While, quite softly, into the ears
of our Fannys and our Mireilles
we were telling our saga,
slipping the ring onto their finger,
a sort of wave rose up
which no-one noticed.
Besides it was only a
wave with no significant amplitide,
a wavelet that had got lost,
but when it reached the sea shore
it caused more destruction,
more damage, than a tsunami.
Very quickly the treachorous wave
moved into our fortress,
overturning it, destroying it.
Farewll Keep, Towers, and Battlements
which just four insignificant drops
had eliminated in passing.
Some time after that we went,
along with grown men, to take part
in other more deceptive battles
where the castles are more in the air
and of sand than before.
When I see soldiers in the prime of life
fighting on the beach
I don't discourage them
although having not long ago
myself fought that war I already
know the inevitable end to the battle.
I know that in spite of their defenses
their story is doomed in advance,
but I leave them to fight
to save a castle of sand
and its unbreachable walls that
one wave is going to sweep away.
1. patriotic song about the French revolutionary army in Flanders in 17942. "ô gué" doesn't now appear to mean anything other than a few syllables to separate bits of discourse. It's sometimes suggested that it originated as "oh gai"(meaning "oh, gay" = but an older version of "gay" than today's common usage of the English word), but I haven't a clue whether that is true or not