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Nelson |
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The man who owned the heartache |
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that lived on the stairs |
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Passed me in the night whistling 'Memories of You' . . . |
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I stared, too frightened to move |
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For fear my eyes shone a light |
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On the darkness he drew like a cloak |
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all around his shoulders . . . |
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And the church on the corner |
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marked the time for the mother |
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Who was giving birth to a child across the hall . . . |
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And I waited, half in anger, half in sadness |
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For an answer to the call for help |
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I had written on the wall. |
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And the rain fell like jewels |
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on the heads of all the fools |
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Who wandered crazed with their souls ablaze for me . . . |
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And the blessing of the hour |
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Was the twilight and the tower |
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With its golden bell from the bottom of the sea . . . |
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And the moon through the window of the bedroom |
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Where lovers slumbered, |
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Made a silver dance of such dust beneath the bed . . . |
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And I waited for a moment in the lamplight, |
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Crystal gazing, |
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listening to their hearts |
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And the changing of their breath. |
