Every era has its terrors. Throughout my childhood in the fifties I was deeply aware of the likelihood of nuclear war. I was fifteen during the Cuban missle crisis. When I went to college, Viet Nam was well underway.
As I mention today in Serial, I tried my hand at folk music. I even wrote a song, which no one has heard for the last 45 years. I wish I could call it the melancholy thoughts of youth but, sadly, it’s still spot on.
The War is Over
Now that the last war is over
Now that the violence is done
Search through the rubble for mourners
You will find — not a one.
Now that the green grass is dying
Now that the trees are stripped bare
The sounds of the forest are silent
The brooks have no laughter to spare.
The moon still hangs sad and silent
The stars fill the heavens with light
The sea rolls so dark and so lonely
Over cities where ruins now lie.
Look for your friends in the mountains
Or your enemy’s spoor on the plain
Run through the corridor shelters
Seek a companion in vain.
Cry out your soul for a songbird
But none will answer your call
Search for your friends and your loved ones
But they’re gone — one and all.
Search for the one called the victor
Through the still smoking rubble and ruin
Now that the violence is over
Now that the war has been won.