Escrita por
Paul Simon, foi gravada em dezembro de 1965 e em agosto de 1966 e
lançada em setembro de 1966 em um compacto que tinha The big bright
green pleasure machine como lado B.
O tema é
uma falha de comunicação entre dois amantes. A canção começa em
um quarto cheio de sombras do sol que entra pela cortina e o quarto
vai desaparecendo aos poucos. Os amantes são tão diferentes quanto
os poetas que eles leem: Emily Dickson e Robert Frost.
Paul Simon
disse que essa canção era comparada com The Sound of silence, sendo
que essa é a mais pessoal, disse ele.
Chegou ao
número 25 dos charts pop americanos e nunca entrou nos charts
britanicos. Simon ficou muito desapontado com o fraco desempenho,
acreditando que o tema era muito forte pra audiencia geral. Chegou a
27 nos charts canadenses.
Foi
regravada por Joan Baez e ela mudou a frase Is the theater really
dead por is the church really dead. Paul Simon liberou mas obrigou-a
a escrever no disco que ele alertava que a frase corretas falava de
teatro e não de igreja.
A letra:
It's a still life water
color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
The borders of our lives.
And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
And the dangled conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
The borders of our lives.
And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
And the dangled conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.
A versão de Simon and
Garfunkel:
A versão de Joan Baez:
A versão de Tbone Wilson:
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