(Paul Simon, 1964)
Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turn my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
"Fools," said I, "you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound of silence
Such incredibly beautiful - and meaningful words.
Is there anyone amongst my readers old enough to remember the sixties? Not the flower power and the free sex, the LSD and Woodstock, the hippies and the burning bras and the Vietnam protests and the fluorescent colours. Yes, it was the time of all that. All that and pop art and mini skirts and paint-on eye lashes and white lipstick too.
But it was also the time the Berlin wall was built and the Bay of Pigs was invaded. It was the time of Mohammed Ali and Bob Dylan and Joan Baez too. It was the time of the Beatles and the first man on the moon, of a handsome American president getting shot and his beautiful widow cradling his bleeding head on her pale pink Chanel skirt. It was the time too when the colonial invaders starting withdrawing from Africa and when India invaded Pakistan, when Fidel Castro became president of Cuba. The time of Martin Luther King and Mao and Khruschev...
It was the time when musicians started writing beautiful lyrics which reflected the confusion and fear and protest and voices of the people. Lyrics which had meaning, which sent a message, which made us think.
Beautiful music... Thank you for the reminder, beautiful Sophie...
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