Spirit On The Water

I'm ordinarily not a big fan of Bob Dylan, I do like this song and yes there are

 others as well.

edit;

Unfortunately this video has been removed account deleted.

and I can't find anything that sounds good....

............

High on the hill 

You can carry all my thoughts with you You've numbed my will This love could tear me in two I wanna be with you in paradise And it seems so unfair I can't go to paradise no more I killed a man back there You think I'm over the hill You think I'm past my prime .......

Words and music by Bob Dylan

Rhapsody on a Windy Night T.S Eliot

Twelve o'clock. 
Along the reaches of the street 
Held in a lunar synthesis, 
Whispering lunar incantations 
Dissolve the floors of memory         
And all its clear relations, 
Its divisions and precisions. 
Every street lamp that I pass 
Beats like a fatalistic drum, 
And through the spaces of the dark         
Midnight shakes the memory 
As a madman shakes a dead geranium. 
 
   Half-past one, 
The street-lamp sputtered, 
The street-lamp muttered,         
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman 
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door 
Which opens on her like a grin. 
You see the border of her dress 
Is torn and stained with sand,         
And you see the corner of her eye 
Twists like a crooked pin." 
 
   The memory throws up high and dry 
A crowd of twisted things; 
A twisted branch upon the beach         
Eaten smooth, and polished 
As if the world gave up 
The secret of its skeleton, 
Stiff and white. 
A broken spring in a factory yard,         
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left 
Hard and curled and ready to snap. 
 
   Half-past two, 
The street-lamp said, 
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,         
Slips out its tongue 
And devours a morsel of rancid butter." 
So the hand of the child, automatic, 
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. 
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.         
I have seen eyes in the street 
Trying to peer through lighted shutters, 
And a crab one afternoon in a pool, 
An old crab with barnacles on his back, 
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.         
 
   Half-past three, 
The lamp sputtered, 
The lamp muttered in the dark. 
The lamp hummed: 
"Regard the moon,         
La lune ne garde aucune rancune, 
She winks a feeble eye, 
She smiles into corners. 
She smooths the hair of the grass. 
The moon has lost her memory.         
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, 
Her hand twists a paper rose, 
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne, 
She is alone 
With all the old nocturnal smells         
That cross and cross across her brain." 
The reminiscence comes 
Of sunless dry geraniums 
And dust in crevices, 
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,         
And female smells in shuttered rooms, 
And cigarettes in corridors 
And cocktail smells in bars. 
 
   The lamp said, 
"Four o'clock,         
Here is the number on the door. 
Memory! 
You have the key, 
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair. 
Mount.         
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, 
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life." 
 
   The last twist of the knife.

☯

Drowning in an ocean of tranquility