“We love your songs,” someone said, “They speak to us, to our souls. Thank you for singing them. We can’t even begin to describe what they mean to us.”
“I’m glad they’ve touched you,” she replied, hoping not to sound awkward but feeling it anyway. She turned to go hurriedly, pretending that she had many things to do. After all, she was supposed to be famous.
She sang the songs of her generation and he loved her. There was adoration in his eyes as he came up to her, a package in his hand.
“What’s this?” she asked, looking at the swirly blue patterns and the little silver ribbon.
“Just a little present,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and pretending to be non-chalant about it.
“Thank you,” she said, neatly peeling at the cellophane tape. She sucked her breath in at the pretty crystal rose, fighting back tears as he said rather shyly, “do you think we could go out?”
“Why would you want me?” she whispered.
She sang the songs of her generation, but she was empty. There was raw power in her words and her voice, but there was nothing left inside her, as if her songs had drained her, leaving her as an empty husk.
“What do you mean you won’t sing anymore?” her manager asked. “Are you trying to ask for more money? We can revise the contract.”
“No, I don’t mean that,” she said quietly. “I just won’t sing.”
“What’s wrong? Have you strained your voice? You could take a break, and we’ll start the new tour next year.”
She shook her head. “I can’t, Bob. There’s nothing left for me to sing out of.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
She sang the songs of her generation once. Once upon a time, a long time ago.
Give me the songs of this generation
Sing over me its mighty anthems
Sing me the songs for this generation
Give me the words from Your heart