human
Hope, sons of France! I am quite near you, I, the voice of all those firesides you have left behind you. To each of you I bring a vision of that corner of the earth in which his heart is embowered. I am the heart of your homeland beating against your heart. Let confidence be always with you, sons of France, confidence and might always. I rhyme the immortal life of the Patrie!
gpt
Madmen, who believe that France could die! Listen to me: above the little church, the fragments of whose stained-glass windows strew the flagstones, the steeple still stands erect. It is from there I come to you, gaily, mockingly. Through me the whole village defies you. I can see!... I can see!... Whatsoever you have done I can see. Whatsoever you may yet do, I also will see. And I fear you not at all. For I know the day will come when the weather-cock on the steeple, who stares unceasingly towards the far horizon, will look down upon your mad, despairing flight, while the bodies of your numberless dead lie thick over all the land.