Pearls

It’s raining out along the pier.
Lord knows why I came out here.
My birthday’s today and I’m twenty-five:
alive a little more.

I’ve been thinking of things that I should do.
I should try my hand at solitude
or be content to watch the sky
whether it shines or pours.

They say that raindrops on the sea
turn to pearls as time goes by.
But me, I cry if I stop to think
that all this beauty has a weight.
The precious things they come so late.
They shine as they start to sink.

My old man woke up confused at dawn
about the time I was coming back home.
If childhood has a second half,
that’s where our two paths meet.

No, he never figured out what day it was,
so I left him alone with his head in a buzz
and an ancient tune on the phonograph.
Edith Piaf singing sweet:

Ah, les heures de ma jeunesse
comme des perles de la tristesse
que je souviens comme une caresse
tous les jours de ma vie.

They say that raindrops on the sea
turn to pearls as time goes by.
But me, I cry if I stop to think
that all this beauty has a weight.
The precious things they come so late.
They shine as they start to sink.

But oh, sweet, little bursts
on the surface of my mind:
Maybe it’s the last time
to feel this for the first time.

Well once in a while my old man makes sense.
He throws me pearls of his experience.
He tells me how good-looking I’ve become.
It’s nice to see me grow.

The rain’s still falling out on the pier;
it’s the summer of my twenty-fifth year.
And yes, I guess it’s good to be young,
though I’m never sure how you know.

Tam Lin