Boulangerie

Lyrics

[Intro]
(the sound of hands on dough — rhythmic, patient, older than the recipe)
(piano enters, mimicking the kneading rhythm)

[Verse 1]
He's been awake since three
And his hands know the way
The way your feet know stairs —
Not thinking, just arriving
Seven hundred folds
And each fold is a sentence
His body memorised so deeply
That the knowing moved
Out of the mind
And into the knuckles
And the knuckles
Don't forget
The knuckles have never once
Forgotten

And he never calls it art
He calls it Wednesday
And the Wednesday
Has flour on its hands
And the flour
Is the most honest résumé
A morning has ever submitted

[Chorus]
(building — strings, accordion, warm, the bakery opening)
Boulangerie, boulangerie
The hands that learn so well they stop thinking
Boulangerie, boulangerie
Seven hundred folds of something deeper
Than the recipe allows
The body practised until the practice
Became a kind of prayer
And the prayer
Became a croissant
And the croissant
Is the most theological argument
This street has ever tasted

[Verse 2]
(just voice and accordion, intimate)
I asked him once — how do you know?
He held up his hands
And the hands said nothing
Because the hands
Don't explain
The hands demonstrate

And the demonstration
Had the patience
Of a woman teaching a river
Which way to go
By standing in it
Long enough
That the river
Decided she was the bank

That's what the body does
With anything it loves enough
To repeat ten thousand times
It stops asking why
And becomes the how
And the how
Is the croissant
On the counter
At six a.m.
Still warm
Still Wednesday
Still here

[Bridge]
(strings swell, the warmth at its fullest)
The mind will tell you
It learned the recipe
The mind is being political
The body learned the recipe
The mind just
Takes the credit
And writes the menu
And the menu
Looks very professional
And the hands
Don't care about the menu
The hands
Are already folding

[Outro]
(the kneading rhythm returns, piano and hands together)
Boulangerie
(softly, with flour)
Seven hundred folds
And each one
Is a love letter
The body writes
Without signing its name
(accordion — warm, the morning fully arrived)