After Paris All the things that I’ve been training for Will they serve me in a war? Can I sing the enemy a serenade, only as a way to infiltrate? How do all the arts make sense, the painting, sculpting, song and dance? If all the world goes up in flames with no one left to say our names How can I stand tall, with pride and put the hate and fear aside? Priez pour paix, though it’s in vain? Flee to safety on a train? While singing slave-songs to feel free – of hopelessness and misery. How can words beat a grenade and blow up those with blood-stained faith who violate our hopes and dreams who leave us with a voice that screams. The pillars that support my life are music and humanity And though they will not keep me safe – defend, protect or armor me: For every bomb I’ll write a poem With melodies I’ll play the fight And might they shoot me in the streets; I’ll have been singing when I died. 12.01am 15 November 2015 E.P.S.