In childhood he was quiet and thoughtful.
When other boys donned cowboy hats and wielded plastic guns
He sat, sketchbook in hand, and drew from his pocket
His weapon of choice, his pencil.
Inside his head, he imagined a world
where violence was confined to comic books
and movies.
When he grew up he joined in debates
with friends around the table.
While red wine flowed and cigarettes were smoked
He thanked God for France and freedom of speech.
He withdrew his weapon of choice
and doodled on the tablecloth
and drank more wine –
Then slept the peaceful sleep of those
whose only weapon is a pencil.
When angry men came to his work
and shouts and shots rang out
he stood and faced them
his weapon of choice
in his hand. his pencil.
Je suis Charlie.
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