Joan of Arc

Joan of Arc

Now the flames, they followed Joan of Arc

as she came riding through the dark;

no moon to keep her armour bright,

no man to get her through this very smoky night.

She said, “I’m tired of the war.

I want the kind of work I had before,

a wedding dress or something white

to wear upon my swollen appetite.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you talk this way.

You know, I’ve watched you riding every day,

and something in me yearns to win

such a cold and lonesome heroine.”

“And who are you?” she sternly spoke

to the one beneath the smoke.

“Why, I’m fire,” he replied,

“And I love your solitude; I love your pride.”

“Then fire, make your body cold.

I’m going to give you mine to hold,”

saying this she climbed inside

to be his one, to be his only bride.

And deep into his fiery heart

he took the dust of Joan of Arc,

and high above the wedding guests

he hung the ashes of her wedding dress.

It was deep into his fiery heart

he took the dust of Joan of Arc,

and then she clearly understood

if he was fire, oh, then she must be wood.

I saw her wince, I saw her cry,

I saw the glory in her eye.

Myself, I long for love and light,

but must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?