When you stand on the verge of the highway to Tucson
You're shadowed like a cape.
Maybe your ride won't ask about prison
But your soul has no escape
And that woman on the horizon
Her joys will never be known
Till you start your confession
In your savior's name, Agron.

There on the border past Mesquite and sage
Where the river glistens like knives.
But the night ones carry their baggage
And dream of better lives.
My hand will let them in
If you confess your sin.

Heal, heal in prayer
Break a branch to cross the river over there.
To deliver our salvation
With its promise in the of the morning of creation.

First of all, I come with nothing.
That's all a sinner receives.
Even these days of freedom are less than a season's lease.
So you followed me across the country
And shared its light on a bus.
You're the stranger I wouldn't talk to.
Now you're Saint Lazarus.

Well then where is the rain you promised me as a child?
Do you think I've got no memory
When my brain was monkey wild?
I am not that fool from Mayagüez.
I lived in hell for sixteen years!
I'm past belief in childhood's prayers.

You killed and then you smiled.

I know remorse would be a river in the desert of my heart.
Whose loss is God the giver
But my tears won't start.

The state of New York imprisoned me.
The state of New York will set me free.
I break this chain, it's pain and its memory.

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© 1997 Paul Simon y Derek Walcott (BMI)

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