The Night

Where does the night go to cry in New York City Whose finger print is that upon the moon Who kisses the stars and shows them pity To the forever distant tune Whose selling souls in the land of plenty Backing out on promises they've made Buying the beggar off with no more than pennies While spitting on the unmarked graves Who gives a voice to the silence Where does memory turn when it forgets When the strong ones fall who picks up the pieces Where do the dying place their bets If the fool reaches for the hand of wisdom At that moment does he cease to be a fool If the night could hear, would it even listen And would it stop crying if it knew