Текст Bruce Cockburn – The Charity Of Night

Big city Europa, July of 64, it’s 5AM
Weather blowing bitter off the Baltic

Car slows beside him as he walks
Hubcaps slow revolution

Couple of language stabs, settle on English
«It’s cold, I give you ride
Don’t you want to kiss me?»

This goes on halfway across the cobbled bridge
Driver pulls ahead, gets out by the construction fence
Ambles towards him rubbing the bulge in his pants

In his jacket is the revolver
The hand is already in the pocket for warmth and fingers slide easily around wood grips

Slow as that predator’s footsteps the gun comes out
Arm straightens, sight blade bisecting yellow forehead
Wind, blue metal streetlight, faint twilight shining on the corners of stones

Wave on wave of life
Like the great wide ocean’s roll
Haunting hands of memory
Pluck silver strands of soul
The damage and the dying done
The clarity of light
Gentle bows and glasses raised
To the charity of night

Slow revolution, 1985, crosswise in a hammock in the hot volcanic hills
Its 3AM the night after the air raid
From the ridge she watched A37s, like ugly gulls
Make a dozen swooping passes over some luckless town
Maybe ten kliks beyond the border

Now lascivious laughter floats on the darkness from the police post next door
Male voices, and a woman’s
Little clouds of desire painted around the edges with rum
In the muddy street a pig suddenly screams

Wave on wave of life
Like the great wide ocean’s roll
Haunting hands of memory
Pluck silver strands of soul
The damage and the dying done
The clarity of light
Gentle bows and glasses raised
To the charity of night

Pacific glimmers silver
Moon full over shadow mansion
West coast, can’t say when
There is incense and the heat-driven scent of flowers

Tongue slides over soft skin
Love pounds in veins brains buzzing balls of lust
Fingers twine in wet hair
Limbs twist and roll

On the dresser wax drips in slow motion down the long side of
A black candle
Ecstatic halo of flame and pheromone

Wave on wave of life
Like the great wide ocean’s roll
Haunting hands of memory
Pluck silver strands of soul
The damage and the dying done
The clarity of light
Gentle bows and glasses raised
To the charity of night