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