In Memoriam, from Les Choristes
Deux ex machina
The soldiers march onward in rigid rows,
Identical breastplates catching the light;
Each man is focused on the cursed foes,
Teeming with hatred and prowess and might.
With a battle cry and a clash of swords
The armies commence the treacherous fight.
A messenger boy weaves among the hoards,
Gaping and swooning at yonder queer light,
In which wing'd angels he seems to behold,
Who are descending toward the battlefield,
And lauding the foes with their trumps of gold!
The fate of his country has now been sealed.
The messenger boy lays down with the dead,
As the heav'n-backed foe paints the field with red.
