Gabriel
©1975 Andrew Calhoun, recorded on Water Street.
My father died, with wrinkled cheeks
I watched him grow old in two weeks
His lips like liver, his face so white
He clutched the sheets, and moaned all night
When my father died, I cried and cried
And tried to fill the hole inside
My father fell down on the run
Between myself and the setting sun
And it became so clear and plain
That I would die, and my own son
Would someday die the same
O my friends, I hate to go
Though I never felt quite here you know
But trust comes only when you bend
We all get left out in the end
For when we die, I don't know why
I guess we die alone
A woman's legs, a woman's love
A woman's thighs, a woman's blood
Between the sheets, we held our strength
And lay in melancholy warmth
Worried for friends, and daughter and sons
And suicide, and money and guns
Down in the sewers of the earth
I fought for you
I never thought I would die first
Such a weak and sinful thing to do
There's a madness I've not felt before
Between my shoulders and the floor
My body stands in total shock
There's something I've been waiting for
A key is turning in the lock
And when my foot slips off the wheel
I wonder how my feet will feel?
I spoke to God the other night
Why do you watch your children burn?
—It's jealousy
Between the coldness and the heat
Infinite, but incomplete
I don't know what to learn
This room some warm and holy tomb
Between the wasteland and the womb
O my woman, O my wife
Acts of love and facts of life
Seem to separate from one another
Turn the mirror to the wall
I can hardly see my face at all
I don't know what waits in store
Out of sight, but just ahead
And as we fade I am afraid
That I won't see you anymore
And I won't know you anymore
And I won't know I love you anymore