Was it love? or love's pretender?- that you felt for me -
your ache, declared, that bound us close
then fled - so easily!
ah, the past! that country where Coppelia had felt alive, had known a happiness she had waited years to know.
Can real love die just like that? Had he actually ever loved her? Had she been courted by love's most effective counterfeit? Coppelia had felt and believed that she was so deeply loved. Is that to be the one and only prize in all this?
today memories wash through her again and again on a tide of longing
