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Scene 1 : Beckoned

Music : Conscience
Texts : Nicolas Moulard

Do I really want to go back there?
My stride is longer today,
I won’t remember how
To walk this land.

The landscape and the weather
The accent and the smells
All locked away.
I am a fool to return
To where they all came from
And to expect them to lay quietly
Through the storm.

I was seven
When death borrowed the place,
But I was a man by the time
I had started the race.
Childhood did not make it
Far beyond the Church,
It stayed behind in pieces
Caught in the branches
That scratched and tore
With every step away,
Leaving me in the morning
Stripped from my life.

The affection I had bathed in
Dried up in the heat of one night.
Disappeared forever.
And I won’t remember how
To love this land.

This infernal, mesmerizing rhythm
Is dying off.
We are slowing down.
Does the train finally feel sorry for me?
Has it decided to roll back to where it came from?
No, I have seen this steeple before,
This is where I get off.