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 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.