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High above the heat of a summer |
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New York street |
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An out-of-work musician plays a solo saxophone |
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He's a preacher and a teacher |
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And he stands up all alone |
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Stranded in the dark of a vision in the park |
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A poet in his madness tries to find another line |
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And he's losing and he's using |
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And he says he's doing fine |
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And they look from such a height |
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That somehow it's all right |
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They're talking back to the night |
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It's all that they can do |
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Talking back to the night |
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It's how they make it through |
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If you listen you can hear them |
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Their voices draw you near them |
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They're talking back to the night for you |
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Something seems to take every dime the man can make |
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His dream is getting smaller and he wonders where to turn |
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And he's trying hard to make it |
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And he's trying not to burn |
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Woman never minds, pulls the shade and draws the blinds |
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She takes him in the darkness where the loneliest can feed |
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She gives him all she has to |
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And it's no more than he needs |
