She walks in the cold dark hour before the morning
The hour when wounded night begins to bleed
Stands at the back of the patient queue
The silent almost sweeping queue
Seein' no-one and not being seen
Working shoes are wrapped in working apron
Rolled in an oilcloth bag across her knees
The swaying tremor soaks the morning
Blue grey steely day is dawning
Draining the last few dregs of sleep away
Over the bridge and the writhing foul black water
Down through empty corridors of stone
Each of the blind glass walls she passes
Shows her twin in sudden flashes
Which is the mirror image, which is real?
Crouching hooded gods of word and number?
Accept her bent-backed homage as their due
The buckets steam like incense coils
Around the endless floor she toils
Cleaning the same white sweep each day anew
Glistening sheen of new-washed floors is fading
There where office clocks are marking time
Night's black tide has ebbed away
By cliffs of glass awash with day
She hurries from her labours still unseen
He who lies besides her does not see her
Nor does the child who once lay at her breast
The shroud of self-denial covers
Eager girl and tender lover
Only the faded servant now is left
How could it be that no-one saw her drowning
How did we come to be so unaware
At what point did she cease to be her
When did we cease to look and see her
How is it no-one knew she was there
The hour when wounded night begins to bleed
Stands at the back of the patient queue
The silent almost sweeping queue
Seein' no-one and not being seen
Working shoes are wrapped in working apron
Rolled in an oilcloth bag across her knees
The swaying tremor soaks the morning
Blue grey steely day is dawning
Draining the last few dregs of sleep away
Over the bridge and the writhing foul black water
Down through empty corridors of stone
Each of the blind glass walls she passes
Shows her twin in sudden flashes
Which is the mirror image, which is real?
Crouching hooded gods of word and number?
Accept her bent-backed homage as their due
The buckets steam like incense coils
Around the endless floor she toils
Cleaning the same white sweep each day anew
Glistening sheen of new-washed floors is fading
There where office clocks are marking time
Night's black tide has ebbed away
By cliffs of glass awash with day
She hurries from her labours still unseen
He who lies besides her does not see her
Nor does the child who once lay at her breast
The shroud of self-denial covers
Eager girl and tender lover
Only the faded servant now is left
How could it be that no-one saw her drowning
How did we come to be so unaware
At what point did she cease to be her
When did we cease to look and see her
How is it no-one knew she was there
envoyé par Bernart Bartleby - 11/11/2016 - 23:26
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Parole e musica di Ewan MacColl
Nell'album “Kilroy Was Here” del 1980, con Peggy Seeger
Testo trovato su Mudcat Café
Uno struggente omaggio di Ewan MacColl alla madre, Betsy Henry Miller, che lo crebbe in mezzo a mille difficoltà, in una povertà resa dignitosa dal suo instancabile lavoro come donna delle pulizie negli uffici e nelle imprese di Salford e Manchester, un lavoro invisibile che iniziava nel cuore della notte e finiva quando la città cominciava a pulsare... Il padre di MacColl, William Miller, era operaio fonditore, militante socialista, spesso licenziato e bandito per via della sua attività sindacale. Credo che il lavoro in fonderia ne avesse anche minato la salute. La coppia perse tre dei quattro figli, sopravvisse solo Ewan, e nonostante tutte queste avversità la forza della piccola Betsy fu sempre incrollabile...