Nice, Pearl of the Midland Sea

Oft have I walked along the shore, charmed by the golden sand,
No gale or tempest could disturb the beauty of the strand;
Nice and Cannes and all the coast were haunt of all the Great,
Famed stars of film and stage would dazzle Heads of State.
Scenery bathed in sunlight, the blend of sea and hill,
Lovers in each other’s arms are in my memory still.
La Côte d’azure gave glamour to all south-eastern France,
It drew the world’s elite to where the wavelets dance.
It glittered under a warming sun that two hours earlier bathed
The mountain slopes of Lebanon with cedar trees all swathed.
As I am witness, dearest France with its history and warrior force
Had once been scene of battle that changed all history’s course.
On the field of Poitier France turned back the tide
Of the Muslim advance in Europe along its western side.
The Gauls and Francs had leaders who with wisdom saw
That the land wanted justice and government by the law.
Alas! now we see the French, those virtues they have lost,
Seek pleasure and ease, ‘twill be to their cost.
Your enemies are driven by extremes of hate
And they must be confronted before it is too late.
For these Daesh and these Nusra and all their violent kind,
Democracy and dialogue are never in their mind.
This time it was not Paris, nor restaurant, nor metro,
Neither airport nor a market, nor bus and nor teeming bistro.
This time the devil chose the town of fairest Nice
To wreak havoc, death and horror and terror to release.
“Twas the fourteenth of July, which is France’s national feast,
A plan was prepared for a time precaution ceased.
The crowd celebrating the joy of being free,
The overthrow of tyranny, all parties would agree..
O you people of Europe, you must get into your brain
That with these wild fanatics all dialogue is vain.
To be “moderate” for these people is pretence and mere parade,
De Gaulle if he were here would refuse such accolade.
Beware of the enemy who prepares a dangerous arm
And is waiting for the moment to do the greatest harm.
The image of Good God is one that they distort
To one who offers Paradise of purely sensual sport.
La Parade des Anglais is the heart of the town
And people come from everywhere are walking up and down.
There is music matched with fireworks and everything is done
For the feast of the nation so all may have some fun.
Then suddenly a truck which is painted all in white
Thunders down upon the crowd, causing terror, death and fright.
To having French nationality the driver had a claim,
But his could mean for the wild and the insane.
The six-wheeled monster drives into the mass,
It veers right and left and leaves death in its path.
Neither gun nor cold steel has done anything alike,
Crime has a new weapon with which it makes a strike.
The victims lie prostrated, their bones are crushed and shattered,
Adults and children everywhere lie scattered.
In this world-famous road for the length of a mile
The truck picks up more speed and then ends in a pile.
There come through the panic loud screams of those in pain,
Blood stains the ground and the scene is quite insane.
Promenade of the English, ‘tis now an ironic name,
‘Tis a Hell where a new devil has brought suffering and shame.
Doctors and medics make haste to reach the scene,
Now a blood-stained floor where beauty once had been.
The maniac driver has now met his certain doom,
One he knew would come to him and end him very soon.
For those of this “nation”, a “nation” with no bound,
All outside their rule are godless, to be killed wherever found.
Mankind by them is threatened, even those of the Holy Book,
World rulers must be firm and tale a steady look.
The West has feet are of clay and stands on shifting sand,
No more should it quibble but take a clearer stand.
Hate and vengeance we do spurn but have got to be firm,
We must lay down the law and courage must learn.
The barbarian killers, thirsting for blood of mankind,
Have no care for dialogue, such is their radical mind.
So suffered the city of Nice, pearl of the Inland Sea,
With Bay of the Angels where Nature and art agree.
Dear France, if you weren’t there, a gift to all mankind,
With scholarship and values, a new France we’d have to find.
O France, of Curie, Hugo, Pasteur and Pascal you were the loving home,
You, Alas! are now the scene of horror that has grown.
Of love we talk to these wild men but they respond with terror,
But we defend that, in the end, despair would be an error.

French by Joseph Matar – Translation from the French: Kenneth Mortimer