Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen
Beside the brassworks my uncle grows sad,
discharging men to meet the various crises.
He is disturbed by greatness
and may write a book.
My father died among old sewing machines,
echo of bridges and water in his hand.
I have his leather books now
and startle at each uncut page.
Cousins in the factory are unhappy.
Adjustment is difficult, they are told.
One is consoled with a new Pontiac,
one escapes with Bach and the folk-singers.
Must we find all work prosaic
because our grandfather built an еarly synagogue?