While travelling northwards. On a back country lane. I came on the village. Where first I grew. And stopped to climb up. The hill once again. Looking down from the tracks.
The wands of smoke are rising. From the walls of the Bastille. And through the streets of Paris. Runs a sense of the unreal. . The Kings have all departed.
Oh, you slipped away from the harbor side. In the mornin bright and clear. And your sails were filled with the risin wind. And you laughed for all to hear.