| I’ll sing to you of a carpenter, a Muslim man
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| He was forced to join an army, he chose to leave his land
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| He was born in Northern Africa, with the desert all around
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| He loved his innocent childhood in the bosom of a desert town
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| Mohamed left Algeria, his family and his friends
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| Knowing he would never see his loved ones ever again
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| You must go, follow your star
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| No matter where you go, there you are
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| No matter where you go, there are you
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| So don’t let go of what you know to be true
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| Mohamed went to Amsterdam, to Paris and to Rome
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| Nowhere in these cities did Mohamed feel at home
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| He’d walk the streets into the night, thrown-out wood to find
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| Making wooden boxes occupied his mind
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| Little wooden boxes in a line on Mohamed’s stand
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| Bringing food and shelter to a Muslim man
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| You must go, follow your star
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| No matter where you go, there you are
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| No matter where you go, there are you
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| So don’t let go of what you know to be true
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| One summer’s day in Paris, he heard a haunting sound
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| Of a lonesome Irish fiddle, he let his tools fall down
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| Looking up he could not see the man, whose music filled this place
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| But he knew his heart was breaking, and the tears rolled down his face
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| Mohamed walked until he saw the man, with a fiddle to his chin
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| He stood and let the music glow, underneath his skin
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| He felt longing for Algeria, and loving for this song
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| How the music of a stranger helps the dreamer move along
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| The carpenter and the fiddler became the best of friends
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| And Mohamed lives in Galway, where the music never ends
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| You must go, follow your star
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| No matter where you go, there you are
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| No matter where you go, there are you
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| So don’t let go of what you know to be true
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| By the Claddagh in the evening, you might see this southern man
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| Selling boxes, toys and fiddles, made with Muslim hand
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| Don’t you feel no pity, nor think he is alone
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| For the music in his spirit, is his shelter and his home
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| Mohamed’s fire ignited with the ancient jigs and reels
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| He sometimes chants in Arabic across the Galway fields
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| His prayers go to Moher, out to the Atlantic sea
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| And echo to Algeria to the land he had to flee
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| You must go, follow your star
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| No matter where you go, there you are
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| No matter where you go, there are you
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| So don’t let go of what you know to be true
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| There’s a woman in Algeria, she looks across the sand
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| And hears a loved one’s prayer from the distant land… |