Rue Charbonnet

(Jon’s voice, warm, like he’s smiling through a memory)

There’s a street that still hums,

even when the lights go out.

She remembers our steps —

every laugh, every note,

every time we danced between raindrops.

Her name’s Rue Charbonnet.

And she still swingin’, baby.

⸻

🎶

There’s music in the cracks of the concrete,

a hymn in the hush of the dawn.

Every shutter clap, every echo’s sweet —

the sound of keepin’ on.

The paint still peels in gospel time,

the breeze hums through my hair.

Even the ghosts got rhythm here,

you can feel ‘em in the air.

🎶

⸻

🎶

Oh ma rue, ma chanson fidèle,

tu brilles encore, douce et rebelle.

🎶

(Oh my street, my faithful song,

you shine again — gentle, strong.)

⸻

🎶

Rue Charbonnet, you kept the beat,

When the river rose, you stayed on your feet.

From the ashes, you bloom like brass,

Your broken windows still sing mass.

Oh, Rue Charbonnet, c’est toi, mon cœur,

You taught me how to turn pain into fleur.

Every crack, every scar, every melody true —

I found my faith walkin’ home to you.

🎶

⸻

(Jon speaking gently over a soft groove)

That old woman still sittin’ on her porch,

hummin’ something between French and gospel.

She say,

“Child, the Lord don’t build walls,

He build bridges outta sound.”

I told her, “Amen, Mama.

And every bridge start with a chord.”

(Clarinet solo riff — joyful, small, human.)

⸻

🎶

L’amour, la lumière, la pluie, le feu,

All of them live on this avenue.

When the night forgot our name,

You whispered joy just the same.

🎶

(The brass swells, choir hums low “mmm… Rue Charbonnet…”)

⸻

🎶

Rue Charbonnet, you kept the beat,

Drums in the puddles, hearts in the street.

From tragedy’s tune, you made a song,

You taught the broken how to belong.

Rue Charbonnet, belle comme la foi,

The sun still rises when you sigh.

Every horn that plays, every soul that grew —

This city’s alive ‘cause of streets like you.

🎶

⸻

You know… every city got a street like this.

The one that hums even when no one’s listenin’.

Rue Charbonnet —

where the water stopped, but the music didn’t.

(Clarinet finishes the melody like a prayer, soft brass echoing the sunrise.)