I like to think that that tarde-noche of 21 september 1934 when i arrived in this world, it was raining. I think that life received me with his music, with intense sound, consistent and serious a hail of autumn, as a harbinger of how future would be the color of my voice.

I baptized as Eliezer ben Nissan Hacohen, although that is my religious name, jewish, but for the rest of the world i becoming known as Leonard Norman Cohen.

Mis ojos vieron la luz en Westmount, un pequeño barrio de Montreal, en Canadá. Allí, en la avenidait is our home, a small but cosy casa de dos plantas accessed via a narrow path of stones that divides the modest garden in two. Lush green Tree gives us his grateful shadow every summer.

My mother is Ms. Marsha, Ms. Marsha Klonitsky, the daughter of the rabbi Solomon Klonitsky-Kline whose family still conserves its roots in lithuania.

My father, son of Lyon Cohen migrant is polish, Nathaniel Cohen, a male worker who madruga daily to conduct the family business.

Like many jewish families, this involves them in their blood a migrant origin and the burden of a religious past. My father acclaims proud that he, and therefore i too, we will descend one's own Aaron the high priest, the brother of moses.

And so is a testament to our family name, “ Cohen ”, which in hebrew means “ priest ”. A vocation, or rather a status, that God has blessed, for the first time, aaron and all its descendants males. With this belief i started to grow, with the courage and wisdom that my ancestors i transmitted from generation to generation, a wisdom that volqué in his poems and songs, as everyone knows.

My first encounter with sadness, that after i never abandoned, was when he was nine years. This turned out to be one of the darkest years of my life.

SO i lost my father! It Was winter snow fell, and, as in an act, without witnesses, i entered your room. I opened the wardrobe and one of its ties.

The tears intimidatingly roamed my face soaking the paper it trying to write with my small and trémulas hands. They were my Last words to Him. I left the house, i fell down on the snow, and helped a stepping stone, i opened a deep hole in the soil.

The body when i trembling, perhaps by cold, perhaps by sadness. With all my love put into the hole that tie, which has so often had seen take my father, and on which my note of farewell.
Today is that when, after so many years, some groups of tourists to deal with the old family home their eyes escudriñan with curiosity the patio, expecting to find some indication of where, where i was able to bury his tie. But this secrecy, like others, will be lost on me. She has never go to find!

Running 1943 . In that same year wrote a song that later versioné. Your title? “ complainte du Partisan ”, “ i regret the Partisano ”, a song that evoked in my mind images of the spanish civil war, of the persistent resistance of the french, german concentration camps …

I have always believed and, i shall certainly heard in the interviews, “ that the nazis were defeated by music ”.