The Letters

(2004)
 

    "Poetry is just the evidence of life.
     If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash."

                                                             Leonard Cohen

                          "Poezija je samo trag zivota.
                           Plamti li tvoj zivot, poezija je samo pepeo plamteceg zara."

                                                                                                     Leonard Cohen

 

[ Leonard Cohen ]

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           You never liked to get
         The letters that I sent.
   But now you've got the gist
Of what my letters meant.

   You're reading them again,
     The ones you didn't burn.
  You press them to your lips,
         My pages of concern.

   I said there'd been a flood.
     I said there's nothing left.
I hoped that you would come.
         I gave you my address.

   Your story was so long,
     The plot was so intense,
  It took you years to cross
       The lines of self-defense.

The wounded forms appear:
     The loss, the full extent;
   And simple kindness here,
         The solitude of strength.

   I said there'd been a flood.
     I said there's nothing left.
I hoped that you would come.
         I gave you my address.

Leonard Cohen

(1934 - 2016)                                         

Leonard Cohen

You walk into my room.                              
You stand there at my desk,                                           
Begin your letter to                                                
The one who's coming next.                                        

Begin your letter to                                                                        
The one who's coming next.                                        

You never liked to get                                                                                            
The letters that I sent.                                                                                  
But now you've got the gist                                                               
Of what my letters meant.                                                   

You're reading them again,                                                        
     The ones you didn't burn.                                                                         
  You press them to your lips,                                                              
         My pages of concern.                                                                           

I said there'd been a flood.                                                                                        
I said there's nothing left.                                                                                
I hoped that you would come.                                                                                            
I gave you my address.                                                                              

Your story was so long,                                                     
The plot was so intense,                                          
It took you years to cross                                                              
The lines of self-defense.                                

The wounded forms appear:                                                                     
The loss, the full extent;                                                                                        
And simple kindness here,                                                                                                     
The solitude of strength.