Sleeping in the fields outside Domremy-La-Pucelle.

I watch the stars above, spin and dance, try to heal.

She walked here, long ago, in her girlhood prelude.

A faithful child, pious and bright; God, angels wooed.


The stars above, so ancient and faraway, still like then.

I look at the stars she saw, lay in her shepherdess glen.

I am still touched by her grace through time, in this place.

But I will never see her in her pride, never touch her face.


I am a broken pilgrim; can I be used, can I be strong, brave?

Will there be even one hurting soul that my love would save?

Am I good enough to be her admirer, to follow her ever higher?

Am I a good man, even if rough and hewn, like her man La Hire?


Ghosts haunt open fields, this town where she was born and grew.

Far away from this forests and friends was God waiting to take you.

I watch those stars who saw and looked after you, in that long past time.

Will I be a lost lamb you find in the night, as I call out with this tender rhyme?



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