Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
If you want a lover
I'll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I'll wear a mask for you
Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent every day
Give me back my broken night
my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here,
there's no one left to torture
Prayer is translation. A man translates himself into a child asking for all there is in a language he has barely mastered.
The last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the sleeping world.
It is painful to recall a past intensity, to estimate your distance from the Belsen heap, to make your peace with numbers. Just to get up each morning is to make a kind of peace.
Let judges secretly despair of justice: their verdicts will be more acute. Let generals secretly despair of triumph; killing will be defamed. Let priests secretly despair of faith: their compassion will be true.
Some say that no one ever leaves Montreal, for that city, like Canada itself, is designed to preserve the past, a past that happened somewhere else.