The stories of the street are mine,the Spanish voices laugh.
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The Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the poison gas,
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and I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I chose,
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yes one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.
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I know you've heard it's over now and war must surely come,
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the cities they are broke in half and the middle men are gone.
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But let me ask you one more time, O children of the dusk,
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All these hunters who are shrieking now oh do they speak for us?
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And where do all these highways go, now that we are free?
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Why are the armies marching still that were coming home to me?
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O lady with your legs so fine O stranger at your wheel,
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You are locked into your suffering and your pleasures are the seal.
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The age of lust is giving birth, and both the parents ask
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the nurse to tell them fairy tales on both sides of the glass.
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And now the infant with his cord is hauled in like a kite,
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and one eye filled with blueprints, one eye filled with night.
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O come with me my little one, we will find that farm
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and grow us grass and apples there and keep all the animals warm.
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And if by chance I wake at night and I ask you who I am,
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O take me to the slaughterhouse, I will wait there with the lamb.
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With one hand on the hexagram and one hand on the girl
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I balance on a wishing well that all men call the world.
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We are so small between the stars, so large against the sky,
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and lost among the subway crowds I try to catch your eye.
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Stories Of The Street
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| Leonard Cohen |
