To Be Mentioned At Funerals
Those days were just the twilight
And soon the poems and the songs
Were only associations
Edged with bitterness
Focused into pain
By paintings in a minor key
Remember on warm nights
When he made love to strangers
And he would struggle through old words
Unable to forget he once created new ones
And fumble at their breasts with broken hands
When finally he did become very old
And nights were cold because
No one was a stranger
And there was little to do
But sift the years through his yellow fingers
Then like fire-twisted shadows of dancers
Alternatives would array themselves
Around his wicker chair
And he regretted everything
Autor(es): Leonard Cohen
