The Village of Goodbyes

I read a story about a village I never knew, And I’ll never go and see. Nothing’s new but despondent smiles For the tourists, And I can’t be the reasoning Behind something untrue. Tragedy is a thing like beauty, That neither can be hidden for long. And through the march that goes with constant grace- Never stopping, Never looking back, But to something altered. Having lost some coloured-piece That once strung together part of a story, But now they've heard her loss In many a reconstructed song. And the visitors sing along To the tune- That time's measured out portions Both bitter and sweet. And she is generous to some, But to others untrue. And often she shakes off her peasant-garb And flies beyond the coast of her home. Where she’s gone to cross the Atlantic, Or to the Continent to learn French, Leaving behind a village She'll never return to.