As Enjolras lay dying
He saw the world to come
Though his face was bathed in moonlight,
He dreamt he saw the sun.

Grantaire lay beside him,
Fallen at Apollo's feet
Belief in something worthy:
The cynic's last defeat.

Their friends lay dead around them,
The streets were bathed in blood.
This was no way for boys to die:
Bodies in the mud.

Where is their Rebel spirit?
Where is the flag they fly?
No one will remember them;
They did not have to die.

Our hearts hold their spirit,
Hands lift their flag on high.
We always will remember them,
And they will never die!

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