«Hurry to your dinner. Hurry to your food. Finish the feeble prayer, your stonework, your golem duties to the woman being born. Hurry to the thigh on the plate and the cloudy city. Lean over your round world. Cut off rusty talk with the unfucked woman, the unconvinced friend, the countless uncertain universes, avoid diplomacy with them. Hurry to your appetite. Hurry to your birthright and the night of long knives and grease. Hurry, worker in the realms of song. Hurry angel, covered spirit, minstrel of my greasy pilgrimage. And hurry back to the warm bed where she is sleeping, where it is dark, her face turned away, and you meet in half sleep, kind to each other as if newly met. Sleep against her back, your arm across her dark waist, your hand under her breast. Until she thrashes in her sleep. The flies walk over your face. She does not know how to make you comfortable. She never has.»
Excerto de “Hurry to Your Dinner” da colectânea Stranger Music, Leonard Cohen (1993). London, Jonathan Cape: 278.