He was my brother
Five years older than I
He was my brother
Twenty-three years old the day he died

Freedom writer
They cursed my brother to his face
"Go home, outsider
Mississippi's gonna be your buryin' place"

He was singing on his knees
An angry mob trailed along
They shot my brother dead
Because he hated what was wrong

He was my brother
Tears can't bring him back to me
He, he was my brother
And he died so his brothers could be
Oh, God, he died so his brothers could be free

Art: Wow. Carnegie Hall. (laughter) I am Artie Garfunkel, at least, alias Artie Garfunkel, now Arthur Garfunkel. This is Paul Simon on my left, and this is "Leaves That Are Green."

I was twenty-one years when I wrote this song
I'm twenty-three now, but I won't be for long
Time hurries on
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Once my heart was filled with the love of a girl
I held her close but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

I threw a pebble in a brook
And watched the ripples run away
And they never made a sound
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Hello, hello, hello, hello
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
That's all there is
And the leaves that are green turn to brown

Paul: Relative to nothing, this is a song called "Sparrow."

Who will love a little sparrow
Who's traveled far and cries for rest?
"Not I," said the Oak Tree
"I won't share my branches with no sparrow's nest
And my blanket of leaves won't warm her cold breast"

Who will love a little sparrow
And who will speak a kindly word?
"Not I," said the Swan
"The entire idea is utterly absurd
I'd be laughed at and scorned if the other swans heard"

Who will take pity in his heart
And who will feed a starving sparrow?
"Not I," said the Golden Wheat
"I would if I could but I cannot I know
I need all my grain to prosper and grow"

Who will love a little sparrow?
Will no one write her eulogy?
"I will," said the Earth
"For all I've created returns unto me
From dust were ye made and dust ye shall be"

I'm sittin' in the railway station
Got a ticket for my destination, mmm
On a tour of one night stands
My suitcase and guitar in hand
And every stop is neatly planned
For a poet and a one-man band

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me

Every day's an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines
And each town looks the same to me
The movies and the factories
And every stranger's face I see
Reminds me that I long to be

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me

Tonight I'll sing my songs again
I'll play the game and pretend
But all my words come back to me
In shades of mediocrity
Like emptiness in harmony
I need someone to comfort me

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me
Silently for me

Paul: Here's a song I almost finished.

You don't know that you love me
You don't know, but I know that you do
You may think you're above me, yeah
What you think isn't always true

Don't try to debate me
You should know that I'm womanly wise
Still you're trying to manipulate me
You don't know where your interest lies
No, you don't know where your interest lies

You don't begin to comprehend
You're just a game that I like to play
You may think that we're friend's, all right
But, ah, I won't let friendship get in my way
No, I won't let friendship get in my way

You don't know that you love me
You don't know, but I know that you do
You may think you're above me, yeah
What you think isn't always true

Don't try to debate me
You should know that I'm womanly wise
Still you're trying to manipulate me
You don't know where your interest lies
No, you don't know where your interest lies

Paul: I wrote this song when I was living in England, and the seeds of the song were planted one day when I saw an article in a London paper about a man who had committed suicide, you see. Four lines in the paper. And I thought, "That's a very bad way to go out. Bad eulogy. Four lines." It's called "A Most Peculiar Man."

He was a most peculiar man
That's what Mrs. Riordan says and she should know
She lived upstairs from him
She said he was a most peculiar man

He was a most peculiar man
He lived all alone within a house
Within a room, within himself
A most peculiar man

He had no friends, he seldom spoke
And no one in turn ever spoke to him
'Cause he wasn't friendly and he didn't care
And he wasn't like them
Oh no! He was a most peculiar man

He died last Saturday
He turned on the gas and he went to sleep
With the windows closed so he'd never wake up
To his silent world and his tiny room
And Mrs. Riordan says he has a brother somewhere
Who should be notified soon
And all the people said,
"What a shame that he's dead
But wasn't he a most peculiar man?"

Paul: This is called "Feelin' Groovy."

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feeling groovy
Ba da da da da da da, feeling groovy

Hello lamppost, what'cha knowing
I've come to watch your flowers growin'
Ain't cha got no rhymes for me?
Doo-it in doo doo, feeling groovy
Ba da da da da da da, feeling groovy

I got no deeds to do
No promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morning time drop all its petals on me
Life, I love you, all is groovy

Ba da da da...

Art: This is the song that took the longest of all the songs to write and to record, and it's also about our favorite amongst all the songs. It's called "The Dangling Conversation."

It's a still-life watercolor
Of a now-late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtain 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 dangling 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 has 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

Art: There's a song that comes out of, ah, the second album, the Sounds Of Silence album, which is an adaptation of an Edwin Arlington Robinson poem, written many years ago, and studied by myself in junior high school. The poem is called "Richard Cory."

They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town
With political connections to spread his wealth around
Born into society, a banker's only child
He had everything a man could want: power, grace, and style

But I work in his factory
And I curse the life I'm livin'
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be
Oh I wish that I could be
Oh I wish that I could be
Richard Cory

The papers print his picture almost everywhere he goes
Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show
And the rumor of his parties and the orgies on his yacht!
Oh, he surely must be happy with everything he's got

But I, I work in his factory
And I curse the life I'm livin'
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be
Oh I wish that I could be
Oh I wish that I could be
Richard Cory

He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch
And they were grateful for his patronage and they thanked him very much
So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read:
"Richard Cory went home last night and put a bullet through his head"

But I, I work in his factory
And I curse the life I'm livin'
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be
Oh I wish that I could be
Oh I wish that I could be
Richard Cory

Time, time, time
See what's become of me
While I looked around
For my possibilities
I was so hard to please
But look around
Leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Hear the Salvation Army bands
Down by the riverside
Is bound to be a better ride
Than what you've got planned
Carry your cup in your hand
And look around you
Leaves are brown now
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Hang onto your hopes, my friend
That's an easy thing to say
But if your hopes should pass away
Simply pretend
That you can build them again
Look around you
The grass is high
The fields are ripe
It's the springtime of my life

Seasons change with the scenery
Weaving time in a tapestry
Won't you stop and remember me
At any convenient time?
Funny how my memory skips
While looking over manuscripts
Of unpublished rhymes
Drinking my vodka and lime
I look around
Leaves are brown now
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground

Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground

Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground

Original Latin lyrics: Benedictus qui venit In nomine Domini In nomine In nomine In nomine Domini In nomine Domini In nomine In nomine In nomine Domini

English translation: Blessed are those who have come In the name of the Lord In the name In the name In the name of the Lord In the name of the Lord In the name In the name In the name of the Lord

Blessed (3:45)
P. Simon, 1966
Released on Sounds Of Silence

Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit
Blessed is the lamb whose blood flows
Blessed are the sat upon, spat upon, ratted on
O Lord, why have you forsaken me?
I got no place to go
I've walked around Soho for the last night or so
Ah, but it doesn't matter, no

Blessed is the land and the kingdom
Blessed is the man whose soul belongs to
Blessed are the meth drinkers, pot sellers, illusion dwellers
O Lord, why have you forsaken me?
My words trickle down from a wound
That I have no intention to heal

Blessed are the stained glass, window pane glass
Blessed is the church service, makes me nervous
Blessed are the penny rookers, cheap hookers, groovy lookers
O Lord, why have you forsaken me?
I have tended my own garden much too long

---

A Poem On The Underground Wall (4:45)
P. Simon, 1966
Released on Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme

Art: The, uh, first album that we recorded for Columbia, called Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m., has a picture on the cover of Paul and myself in the subway system in New York here, standing at the, um, Fifth Avenue station, next to an iron post; if you know the album and you're familiar with the picture, what you're not familiar with is the trouble that we went through in order to get that final picture, because the original shots that were taken for the, uh, cover were taken off, off the, uh, picture that you see, standing against the subway wall on the platform, underneath the subway sign. And we took about five hundred pictures until we were satisfied with the perfect James Dean shot, and packed up the cameras and guitars, and as we left the station, I took a glance at the subway wall in front of which we had taken all the pictures for the first time that day, and noticed that written there, rather legibly, in the baroque style common to New York subway wall writers, was, uh, was the old familiar suggestion. And rather beautifully illustrated as well. So. Well, we had a conference with Columbia Records to decide what to do about this problem, and um, of course, we immediately told Columbia that this was exactly what we wanted on the cover of the LP. Forget it. I'm, um, mentioning this because we have taken a song, it's now two years later, Paul has written a song fairly recently, in London, dealing with the, uh, theme of people who write on subway walls, but treating the theme in a rather strange and serious way. The song is called "A Poem On The Underground Wall."

The last train is nearly due
The underground is closing soon
And in the dark deserted station
Restless in anticipation
A man waits in the shadows

His restless eyes leap and scratch
At all that they can touch or catch
And hidden deep within his pocket
Safe within its silent socket
He holds a colored crayon

Now from the tunnel's stony womb
The carriage rides to meet the groom
And open wide and welcome doors
But he hesitates, and then withdraws
Deeper in the shadows

And the train is gone suddenly
On wheels clicking silently
Like a gently tapping litany
And he holds his crayon rosary
Tighter in his hand

Now from his pocket quick he flashes
The crayon on the wall he slashes
Deep upon the advertising
A single worded poem consisting
Of four letters

And his heart is laughing, screaming, pounding
The poem across the tracks rebounding
Shadowed by the exit light
His legs take their ascending flight
To seek the breast of darkness and be suckled by the night

---

Anji (Instrumental) (2:29)
D. Graham, 1965
Released on Sounds Of Silence

---

I Am A Rock (2:57)
P. Simon, 1965
Released on Sounds Of Silence

A winter's day
In a deep and dark December
I am alone
Gazing from my window
To the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow

I am a rock
I am an island

I've built walls
A fortress deep and mighty
That none may penetrate
I have no need for friendship
Friendship causes pain
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain

I am a rock
I am an island

Don't talk of love
Well, I've heard the word before
It's sleeping in my memory
I won't disturb the slumber
Of feelings that have died
If I never loved, I never would have cried

I am a rock
I am an island

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me
I am shielded in my armor
Hiding in my room
Safe within my womb
I touch no one and no one touches me

I am a rock
I am an island

And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries

---

The Sound Of Silence (3:25)
P. Simon, 1964
Released on Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m. and Sounds Of Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools," said I, "you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence"

---

For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her (2:40)
P. Simon, 1966
Released on Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme

Paul: (amid audience shouting) Just a little kid, you cannot yell like that at me. "Hey, Schoolgirl!" Who said that?

What a dream I had
Pressed in organdy
Clothed in crinoline
Of smoky burgundy
Softer than the rain

I wandered empty streets
Down past the shop displays
I heard cathedral bells
Tripping down the alleyways
As I walked on

And when you ran to me
Your cheeks flushed with the night
We walked on frosted fields
Of juniper and lamplight
I held your hand

And when I awoke
And felt you warm and near
I kissed your honey hair
With my grateful tears
Oh, I love you, girl
Oh, I love you

---

A Church Is Burning (3:43)
P. Simon

A church is burning
The flames rise higher
Like hands that are praying
They grow in the sky
Like hands that are praying
The fire ascends
You can burn down my churches
But I shall be free

Three hundred men through the back roads did creep
Torches in their hands while the village lie asleep
Down to the church where, just hours before
Voices were singing, and
Hands were meeting, and
Saying, "I won't be a slave anymore"

And a church is burning
The flames rise higher
Like hands that are praying
They glow in the sky
Like hands that are praying
The fire ascends
You can burn down my churches
But I shall be free

Three hundred men, their hands lit the spark
And they faded in the night, and they vanished in the dark
And in the cold light of morning, there was nothing that remains
But the ashes of a Bible and a can of kerosene

And a church is burning
The flames rise higher
Like hands that are praying
They glow in the sky
Like hands that are praying
The fire ascends
You can burn down my churches
But I shall be free

A church is more than just timber and stone
And freedom is a dark road when you're walking it alone
But the future is now, and it's time to take a stand
So the lost bells of freedom can ring out in my land

And a church is burning
The flames rise higher
Like hands that are praying
They glow in the sky
Like hands that are praying
The fire ascends
You can burn down my churches
But I shall be free

---

Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m. (3:35)
P. Simon, 1964
Released on Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m.

Paul (in a bemused British accent, amid continuing shouts of "More!" from the audience): Shut up, you've had your fun. (laughter, chattering, guitar chords, pause) Thought I was playing alone there for a little while.

I can hear the soft breathing of the girl that I love
As she lies here beside me, asleep with the night
And her hair in a fine mist floats on my pillow
Reflecting the glow of the winter moonlight

She is soft, she is warm, but my heart remains heavy
And I watch as her breasts gently rise, gently fall
For I know with the first light of dawn I'll be leaving
And tonight will be all I have left to recall

Oh what have I done, why have I done it?
I've committed a crime, I've broken the law
For twenty-five dollars and pieces of silver
I held up and robbed a hard liquor store

Oh, my life seems unreal, my crime and illusion
A scene badly written in which I must play
Yet I know as I gaze at my young love beside
The morning is just a few hours away.