(P. Simon)
|
The night sets softly
|
With the hush of falling leaves,
|
Casting shivering shadows
|
On the houses through the trees,
|
And the light from a street lamp
|
Paints a pattern on my wall,
|
Like the pieces of a puzzle
|
Or a child's uneven scrawl.
|
|
Up a narrow flight of stairs
|
In a narrow little room,
|
As I lie upon my bed
|
In the early evening gloom.
|
Impaled on my wall
|
My eyes can dimly see
|
The pattern of my life
|
And the puzzle that is me.
|
|
From the moment of my birth
|
To the instant of my death,
|
There are patterns I must follow
|
Just as I must breathe each breath.
|
Like a rat in a maze
|
The path before me lies,
|
And the pattern never alters
|
Until the rat dies.
|
|
And the pattern still remains
|
On the wall where darkness fell,
|
And it's fitting that it should,
|
For in darkness I must dwell.
|
Like the color of my skin,
|
Or the day that I grow old,
|
My life is made of patterns
|
That can scarcely be controlled.
|
|
-----------------
|
Patterns
|
| Simon & Garfunkel |
