You only fight well for causes you yourself have shaped, with which you identify—and burn.

When you are a soldier you do not always realize there is anything beyond the will of your commander, the will of your king. But when you're on the field of battle, when the swords clash and the colors fly above you in all their glory, there comes a time when you wonder: Why am I here? All the brilliance fades, the glory becomes meaningless; the blood spilled and comrades dead, all for nothing when you have no cause to fight for.

LONG LIVE...

This country is but a wish of the spirit, a counter-sepulcher.

In my country, tender proofs of spring and badly dressed birds are preferred to far-off goals.

Truth waits for dawn beside a candle. Window glass is neglected. To the watchful, what does it matter?

In my country, we don't question a man deeply moved.

There is no malignant shadow on the capsized boat.

A cool hello is unknown in my country.

We borrow only what can be returned increased.

There are leaves, many leaves, on the trees in my country. The branches are free to bear no fruits.

We don't believe in the good faith of the victor.

In my country, we say thank you.

Desire, desire which knows, we draw no advantage from our shadows except from some veritable sovereignties accompanied by invisible flames, invisible chains, which, coming to light, step after step, cause us to shine.

I believe in the magic and authority of words.

the battle's in your hands now, but I would lay my armor down, if you said you'd rather love than fight.