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He came home earlier than the rest,

a bullet lodged deep in his chest.

Discharged with no fanfare, no parade,

they told him, “Thanks, go home—you’ve been brave.”

He packed his stripes inside a box,

his brothers-in-arms stayed behind in the dust.

So he hit the road, no map, no voice,

just his bike… and his faith, his choice.

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He rides… to forget the war,

to feel the dust once more.

Beneath the leather beats the heart

of a Legionnaire, still torn apart.

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At night, the faces all return,

their cries in the wind still burn.

He stops by the bend of the road,

helmet on the tank—his silent ode.

No medals, no speeches, no cheers,

just memories carved through the years.

But when the engine starts again,

he feels hope flow through his veins.

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He rides… to escape the silence,

in his eyes, both loss and France.

Beneath the leather beats the heart

of a Legionnaire, still seeking light.

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One day, he’ll stop…

maybe on a beach, or before a flag.

He’ll look up at the sky, and say:

“I served. I paid. But I never stopped loving.”

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He rides… still, without deliverance,

haunted by ghosts and conscience.

Beneath the moon, he turns to dust,

but never forgets the Legion’s trust.

(Whisper fade-out)

The French Legionnaire…

ever present… never defeated.