We go from the elegantly understated, folk-like repetition of:
I met a woman long ago
her hair the black that black can go,
Are you a teacher of the heart?
Soft she answered no.
I met a girl across the sea,
her hair the gold that gold can be,
Are you a teacher of the heart?
Yes, but not for thee.
She used to wear her hair like you
except when she was sleeping,
and then she'd weave it on a loom
of smoke and gold and breathing.
into the bizarre simile:
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm.
I have deliberately omitted to specify from which songs these lines come because (a) you darn well ought to know and (b) if you don't, it will do you an enormous amount of good to visit the official web site and brush up on your Cohen.
This is not, lest so ye think, in any way a complaint; these threads of subject and imagery are one of the many phenomena that make Cohen's albums fascinating and able to bear repeated and close attention. Fire crops up quite a bit, as does dance and (blushes slightly) oral sex. This semi-apologetic paragraph will not, I suspect, preserve me from being ambushed, cornered and pointed at witheringly by the local cadre of the Leonard Cohen militia. Yes, they are everywhere.
Your homework is to describe the top thatch of your loved one in as vivid and original a way as possible. The best work will be displayed on the walls for parents' evening.
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