The dust that unites us all
Whether still earthly or already stardust
Traveled through sparse winds of fortune
That still do not wish to deviate their course
The fire of joyful girlhood
Lit with the brushwood of the past
Is swiftly swept away by the breeze
Scattered along the cobblestone path
The heron we tried to chase
Deceived by such apparent calm
Was already flying away at dusk
That even the hawk could do nothing for us
The game to which we lent our bodies
Crawling barely in the world's mud
Is called life, and only monsters play
That place us pawns all around. . .
It is essentially this the essence of what Leonard Cohen wishes to communicate to us.
A slow maturation, marked by drugs and poverty, an imperative source for a songwriting art thirsty and melancholic, romantic and decadent, almost opposed to the minimalism of the Chansonnier.
A difficult-to-melt ice sheet that stands out Kafkaesquely between daring and whispering, ephemeral echo of such semblance, akin and deserted to the spit of the child who has crossed the threshold, perhaps running, driven by a distant April. . .
In poor terms, Leonard Cohen
This veteran singer-songwriter has always been a difficult client for the world of show-business: absolutely indifferent to market rules and promotional operations.
Overall, a classic of singer-songwriter music, a must-have for those who love poetry, music, and their intersection.