The Stranger

Leonard Cohen


(Sin púa ni cinta pero la copié a mano del disco, poniendo pausa, arrancando de nuevo, pasando cada tanto de nuevo toda la canción y parando bien la oreja para llenar los huecos en el texto, como en los viejos tiempos...
Tiene otro sabor la tecnología obsoleta de la adolescencia cuando lo nuevo también es accesible...
Y nunca vi un mejor y más honesto autorretrato del tipo hijo de puta con las minas -y a quien inexplicablemente le perdonamos la vida, no lo merece- que esta canción...
Ah, sí, Pablo, son DOS discos. "The Essential Leonard Cohen", Columbia, 2002.)

(Otro día la traduzco.)


It's true that all the men you knew were dealers who said they were through with dealing every time you gave them shelter.
I know that kind of men, it's hard to hold the hand of anyone who was reaching for the sky just to surrender,
who was reaching for the sky just to surrender.
And then, sweeping up the jokers that he left behind, you'll find he did not leave you very much, not even laughter.
Like any dealer, he was watching for the card that is so high and wild he'll never need to deal another.
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger.
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger.
And then, leaning on your window sill, he'll say one day you caused his will to weaken with your love and warmth and shelter.
And then, taking from his wallet an old schedule of trains he'll say "I told you, when I came I was a stranger".
And now another stranger seems to want you to ignore his dreams as though they were the burden of some other.
Oh, you've seen this man before, his golden arm dispatching cards, but now it's rusted from the elbow to the finger.
And he wants to trade the game he plays for shelter.
Yes, he wants to trade the game he knows for shelter.
Now you hate to watch another tired man lay down his hand like he was giving up the holy game of coker.
And while he talks his dreams to sleep, you notice there's some highway that is curling up like smoke above his shoulder.
It's curling just like smoke above his shoulder.
You tell him to come in, sit down, but something makes you turn around, the door is open, you can't close your shelter.
You tried the hand to look the road it opened, "do not be afraid, it's you, my love, you who are the stranger.
It's you, my love, you who are the stranger.
Well, I've been waiting, I was sure we'd meet between the trains we're waiting for like it was time to board another.
She's understand I've never had a secret chart to get me to the heart of this or any other matter".
When he talks like this, you don't know what he's after.
When he speaks like this, you don't know what he's after.
"Let's meet tomorrow, if you choose, upon the shore beneath the bridge that they are building on some endless river".
And he leaves the platform for this sleeping card that's warned you realize he's only advertising one more shelter.
And it comes to you he never was a stranger.
And he says "okey, the bridge was some place later".


(Songs of Leonard Cohen, 1967)