There is a voice of comfort,
a poet of the truth
chords interwoven in every crack,
to lighten and to sooth.
Silken syllables singing
like distant thunders' clouds
to the lonely, humble ones
whose candles soon burn out.
A blessing from a being,
bestowed between the bad
who sat upon his whispered throne;
beaten, black and ironclad.
The boon from a saint of satin tongue
to those humanity fit;
humble thinkers, meek and strong
of kindest hearts and fathers' wit.
There is a voice of comfort,
for all who soon pass on.
When the darkness closes in
to where you thought you belonged.
It will pass you on with dignity,
mirror mentors of the Minoan
"Hineini, Hineini. Here I am,"
sings the ghost of Leonard Cohen
I was quite shattered the day I read Leonard Cohen had passed on, Only recently I'd aquired his latest album, released only weeks before his death. On this album, -as in most of his work, he was the comforting voice who was no less than the perfect friend on the late, dark nights when thoughts wander, grandfather clocks tick and cats purr. I owe him
B
"You want it darker, we **** the flame"
L.C.