You know…

the world is an old, worn-out cabaret,

with red curtains that smell of dust and stale beer.

The owners sell ideas the way girls are sold at the edge of a port,

they repaint the walls with slogans to hide the cracks,

and we—

we still applaud,

because that’s what we were taught to do.

They tell you: behave.

Stand up straight.

March in line.

And shut up—above all, shut up.

Because here, the truth costs more than a funeral.

So you play the game.

You dress up as a model citizen,

your heart folded into quarters in your pocket

so it won’t stick out of your neatly pressed jacket.

And you smile like a dead man who still knows how to blink.

But sometimes…

there’s a breach.

A flash that slips through.

A kid laughing too loud.

An old woman singing off-key in an empty subway.

A word that burns your tongue and spills out on its own,

like a brick shattering a shop window.

And then…

then you know you’re still alive.

That there’s still a river of fire in your veins,

enough to set fire to their cardboard cathedrals,

their plastic rules,

their pre-packaged dreams.

So you say fuck it.

Fuck the politeness of cemeteries.

Fuck the merchants of vacuum-sealed happiness.

Fuck those who think the soul can be weighed by the gram

and sold by the piece.

Because life isn’t a user manual!

It’s not a weather report wedged between two ads for funeral insurance!

Life is that slap you take when you still dare to love!

That tear that falls without warning!

That damn need to reach out your hand

even when there’s no one left on the other side!

And as long as it burns in there…

as long as it rumbles like a storm behind the ribs…

then, my friend…

it means we’re still standing.

With… or without a flag.

© 2025 Léo Dombre. Tous droits réservés.