[Intro - spoken] It’s eight o’clock on rue de Seine... (and he isn't here...) [Verse 1 - piano + cello enter] Thirty-seven days he sat right there Thirty-seven poems she wrote in the air One Sunday in a cellar, one stolen line And now... (...this) A letter on rue de Seine... [Pre-Chorus - strings swell] We told you at the start, we’re just the frame The sugar in the coffee, the wind in the rain But God help us... we started to hope That maybe... this time... the broken could cope [Full Company] Did you see it too? The way they burned? The way he looked at her like he’d learned How to breathe? [Chorus - FULL COMPANY, same melody as Opening, now minor, devastating] It’s eight o’clock on rue de Seine The rain’s the same, the rain’s the same But something’s different in the air It’s emptier... it’s pain He was fifty-three and married She was nineteen and so pure And we’re the ones who have to live With how this love didn't endure So close your books, push in your chairs There’s nothing left to see The saddest, truest thing in Paris Is a man who chooses to be free Of her... On rue de Seine... [Verse 2 - breakdown, spoken/sung, ENSEMBLE reads lines from the letter] "My dear poet, forgive my flight..." "There is a woman in a faraway town..." "...she calls me love though I haven’t earned..." "...you laughed and the ice in my veins broke..." I can’t... "Your Mister Silver... always." (...always.) [Bridge] So was it worth it? Tell me! Was it right? To save her spring by killing his light? Is that what honor looks like? Is that what grace costs? Two good lives... and still, they both lost. [Final Chorus - defiant, then breaking] I don’t know! I serve coffee! I’m not God! I just know... I just know... (...we’ll never see him at eight o’clock again) [Final Chorus - ORCHESTRA returns, modulates DOWN not up, funeral ballad, transcendent grief] It was eight o’clock on rue de Seine For thirty-seven days of spring He spoke her name, she lit his fire, And honor... honor... took everything She’s spring and he’s winter And we are the years Watching two people choose Their separate tears So blow out the candles, lock the door The story’s done... isn’t it? Maybe there's more to come (...on rue de Seine...)
