Leonard Cohen Poem by Mario, Lucien, Rene Odekerken

A voice like gravel and twilight,
words woven from longing and loss.
He walked through verses of love and ruin,
where saints and sinners shared a song.

Guitar strings whispered in candlelit rooms,
poetry dripped from his pen like old wine.
He searched for God in the dark and the flesh,
never certain, never still.

Montreal's son, draped in black,
a poet, a monk, a weary traveler.
Even in silence, his echoes remain,
softly singing hallelujah.