| Marie, Marie Flore was a small girl of ten
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| Whom I met in the south end of France.
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| Stepping out of the crowd was the daughter
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| Of someone with flowers for me, we were friends at a glance.
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| She spoke no English but sat by my side in the car
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| And pointed out places en route to the village of Arles.
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| Marie, Marie Flore came to table that night
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| As I dined in an ancient hotel.
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| The room was all fitted with things from the seventeenth century
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| And they suited her well.
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| She would eat nothing but sat in her chair like a queen
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| And laughed at my French but seemed always to know what I’d mean.
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| Marie, Marie Flore came to hear me that night
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| When I sang for the people of Arles.
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| She stood back in the shadows of a ruined arena,
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| Her frame in my mind was never too far.
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| In the rush that did follow I found she was holding my hand
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| And ushering me through an evening the elders had planned.
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| Marie, Marie Flore, I will always remember
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| Your eyes, your smile and your grace.
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| The gold that flowed with your laughter remains
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| To enlighten the image I have of your face.
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| For I have seen children with faces much wiser than time,
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| And you, my Marie, are most certainly one of this kind.
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| Marie, Marie Flore, all the odds say I see you again
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| By plan or by chance.
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| But if not you’ll be there when I’m dreaming of rain over Paris
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| Or sun on the south end of France.
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| Marie, Marie, Marie Flore. |