A song by Bruce Cockburn:
Heavy northern autumn sky, dark spruce, bright maple and the great lake rolling forever to the narrow grey beach. I look west along the red road of the frail sun to where it hovers between shelf of cloud and spiky trees receiving the shore. The world is full of seasons, of anguish, of laughter and it comes to mind to write you this: nothing is sure, nothing is pure and no matter who you think you are everybody gets the chance to be nothing. Love is supposed to heal, but it breaks my heart to hear the pain in your voice. But, you know, it's all going somewhere and I would crush my heart and throw it in the street if I could pay for your choice. Isn't that what friends are for? We're the insect life of paradise, crawling across a leaf, firm among towering blades of grass, glimpsing only sometimes the amazing breath of heaven. You are loved as you were before the strangeness swept through our bodies, our houses, our streets when we could speak without codes, lights swearing around like windblown petals of fate. I've been scraping little shavings off my ration of light, forming it into a ball and each time I pack a little bit more onto it. I make a bowl with my hands and I scoop it from it's secret cash under a loose board in the floor and I blow across it and I send it to you against those moments when the darkness blows across your door. Isn't that what friends are for?
Heavy northern autumn sky, dark spruce, bright maple and the great lake rolling forever to the narrow grey beach. I look west along the red road of the frail sun to where it hovers between shelf of cloud and spiky trees receiving the shore. The world is full of seasons, of anguish, of laughter and it comes to mind to write you this: nothing is sure, nothing is pure and no matter who you think you are everybody gets the chance to be nothing. Love is supposed to heal, but it breaks my heart to hear the pain in your voice. But, you know, it's all going somewhere and I would crush my heart and throw it in the street if I could pay for your choice. Isn't that what friends are for? We're the insect life of paradise, crawling across a leaf, firm among towering blades of grass, glimpsing only sometimes the amazing breath of heaven. You are loved as you were before the strangeness swept through our bodies, our houses, our streets when we could speak without codes, lights swearing around like windblown petals of fate. I've been scraping little shavings off my ration of light, forming it into a ball and each time I pack a little bit more onto it. I make a bowl with my hands and I scoop it from it's secret cash under a loose board in the floor and I blow across it and I send it to you against those moments when the darkness blows across your door. Isn't that what friends are for?
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