The Charity of Night - Bruce Cockburn

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, jaundiced

looking pockmarked face round and windburn, short greasy black beard.

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 toward a rubbing 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. As slow as that predator's

footsteps the gun comes out, arm straightens, scythe blade bisecting yellow

forehead. Wind. Blue metal street light. Faint twilight shining in the

corners of stones.

Chorus:
Wave on wave of life
Like the great wide oceans 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 clicks beyond the border. In the
distance the Pacific glimmered silver. 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.

Chorus

Pacific glimmers silver. Moon full over shadow mansion.
West coast. Can't say when.
There is incense and the heat-driven scent of flowers. A 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.

Chorus

Disk