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There was a man who lived by a cemetery and no one asked why. And why anyone would ask something? I do not live near a cemetery and no one asked me why. Something lying, rotten or bruised, the pedestal and the non. If one man to live at the cemetery also it will not ask why, but if he live in remote cemetery still did not ask him why. But not the case this man lives near a cemetery. I will say that everything is left to chance, starting from where live. It does not matter what I say because no one ever says anything to me when he thinks he's saying something to me. I just heard the desperate Rihsoshii, the ritual of my songs come from the grave of my childhood sacred Forbidden. Lie. At this moment I hear Lenya sings Die dreigroshenoper. It is clear that on the record, but it's amazing that in the three years that have passed since the last time I heard it until today nothing has changed for Lenya and lots (and even all, if it's true) has changed for me. I knew the death and knew the rain. Because of this, perhaps, just because, just because of the rain on the graves, just because of the rain and the dead, he could be living next to a cemetery. The dead do not give signs of any kind. Bad luck and patience, just because life is a musical study period of silence. But something stirred and emerges when the rain falls in the cemetery. Saw me lean black men sing the lamentations of nomads, poets lost. And those with Hkftan wet from the rain and the tears did not help, and my father too young legs and arms of a Greek boy, my father must have scared the first night of that terrible place. Crowd skinny black men quickly leave the cemetery. A ragged left side as for the man to whom the story begins in going was a lived was near a cemetery. Oh, the record has changed, and Lenya became old. All dead drunk and dirty rain unfamiliar and strange cemetery Jewish. Only when the rain tapped on the graves I know something of what terrified me know. Blue eyes, eyes filled with cool ground of the empty holes in the Jewish bromo cemetery. If there was an empty little house near the cemetery, if he could be mine. And take it like a ship and looking through binoculars on father's grave in the rain, because the only union with the dead going on in the rain, when the dead return to life and tell a few ghost stories about back to life. Happens to me in the winter I'm getting closer to my dead, as if the rain causes bromo it to be possible. It is true that it is not important what or who called God, but it is also true that I have read in the Talmud: "Three keys in the hand of God: that of the rain, it's birth, and the resurrection."
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