I will not cry.
I must not cry.
Nary a weakness,
Nary a vulnerability,
Nary a thing may be shown,
Not even the slightest twinge of my lips
Nor an escaped sound of agony,
As the flames nip and dance at my feet.
I must prove that it was all worth it,
Fighting for France,
My brothers of blood
My sisters of solitude.
I must show that it was worth it,
To be made a sacrifice for the sentry,
Tried for my efforts by the enemy,
And declared a witch by the wholly.
It was worth it.
It has to be worth it.
Otherwise, what am I silently dying for?
Why am I not screaming for my torn open calf?
The smoke quickly rises,
I inhale the black oblivion,
And exhale methodically and slowly,
Acting the part of a devout nun.
Their screams get louder and louder
And the water in my eyes builds up in the lids-
I will not cry,
I must not cry.
My nails scratch at the palisade,
An inoperative reassurance
Against how I must face fate’s final farewell to me:
Thus, I welcome Death as he pulls me in by the waist.
Soon, the bites become tickles,
The fire becomes my friend.
My thoughts, at once, are allowed to rise.
I hear my audience.
I hear the people.
They declare me a witch,
An unclean soul, unjust to wear my armor,
Unworthy to have championed against their opponent.
I hear one voice above them all, a woman’s,
Cursing me to hell, wishing de Rais had been in my place,
Wishing that anyone else could have killed her husband.
For the first time I wonder,
Am I truly unfit to have slain so many men?
To have changed fate for the French?
My heroism-
Was it not for me to do?
Was I meant to stay in Domrémy?
To remain sweeping my floors
Rather than riding on horseback
With a vorpal blade in hand?
Surely, perhaps.
Surely, I am bound by my breasts.
I should be distraught, but I choose to brave through.
Why? For I’ve watched many burn before,
Crying, sobbing, breaking down,
But I choose to compose myself just as I have my whole life.
This was instilled in me as a young girl.
Why show emotion?
Emotion is weakness,
And men prefer a girl who is quiet.
But what I have done is beyond that,
For I cry out as I run through the battlefield
And I let myself go wild as I fight for my country.
I say I fight for women, but why do I do so
If I stay silent while I burn to death?
I wanted people to view me as a great being.
For my last moments would show a woman
Who stays still, silently,
Perfectly,
Saintly.
So, I will cry.
I must cry.
I must not go out in the way that they want.
They must hear me just as the deceased heard me on the field.
The deceased who I hear now, whispering,
'La chanson de Jeanne résonne,
Chante pour t’épée.'
I’ll give the living mob a word.
A word they think they’ll understand.
In truth, it’s a rebellion against the world I endure now.
Perhaps I won’t go down unseen.
Perhaps I’ll be known for my battle cries.
The flames blind me, I push through;
I raise my chin defiantly and ultimately toss back my hair.
Jesus!
Jesus!