A Resolution at the Barricade

It may not be the strike of twelve,

or even a cold winter's night,

but with these men, I make a wish;

a wish to make it through this fight.

We sit and ponder revolution,

holding onto desperate hope,

we pass a bottle around the group;

blood-red valour to help us cope.

Shots start to blast from all around,

out in front, the child dies.

His dreams were vast but silent now,

and his eyes stare blankly at the sky.

Hours on, we hear the news:

we’re the last men left at war.

We look upon the men in blue;

they’ll withdraw soon, of this we’re sure.

And yet, the sun begins to rise,

their men start talking, now with haste.

Too quick, they storm the barricade;

we fight back and start the chase.

I see my friends run through the doors,

trapped as one in an upstairs room.

I am frozen as they think they’re safe,

and helpless when the muskets boom.

But with renewed strength, I find

a will to see this battle done.

I follow the soldiers up the stairs,

and there remains only one.

Towards Apollo I stumble blindly,

pushing past the gods of death.

I’m by his side as the flag is lifted,

we even share our final breath.

---

I totally didn't write this about Enjolras and Grantaire from Les Miserables, I don't know what you mean :)

~ C