Come you masters of war You that build all the guns You that build the death planes You that build all the bombs You that hide behind walls You that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masks. You that never done nothin' But build to destroy You play with my world Like it's your little toy You put a gun in my hand And you hide from my eyes And you turn and run farther When the fast bullets fly. Like Judas of old You lie and deceive A world war can be won You want me to believe But I see through your eyes And I see through your brain Like I see through the water That runs down my drain. You fasten all the triggers For the others to fire Then you set back and watch When the death count gets higher You hide in your mansion' As young people's blood Flows out of their bodies And is buried in the mud. You've thrown the worst fear That can ever be hurled Fear to bring children Into the world For threatening my baby Unborn and unnamed You ain't worth the blood That runs in your veins. How much do I know To talk out of turn You might say that I'm young You might say I'm unlearned But there's one thing I know Though I'm younger than you That even Jesus would never Forgive what you do. Let me ask you one question Is your money that good Will it buy you forgiveness Do you think that it could I think you will find When your death takes its toll All the money you made Will never buy back your soul. And I hope that you die And your death'll come soon I will follow your casket In the pale afternoon And I'll watch while you're lowered Down to your deathbed And I'll stand over your grave 'Til I'm sure that you're dead.------- Bob Dylan 1963
Fado, I’ll sleep like people do when shells are falling and the sky is torn like living flesh I’ll dream, then, like people do when shells are falling: I’ll dream of betrayals
I’ll wake at noon and ask the radio the questions people ask of it: Is the shelling over? How many were killed?
But my tragedy, Fado, is that there are two types of people: those who cast their suffering and sins into the streets so they can sleep and those who collect the people’s suffering and sins mold them into crosses, and parade them through the streets of Babylon and Gaza and Beirut all the while crying Are there any more to come?Are there any more to come?
Two years ago I walked through the streets of Dahieh, in southern Beirut and dragged a cross as large as the wrecked buildings But who today will lift a cross from the back of a weary man in Jerusalem?
The earth is three nails and mercy a hammer: Strike, Lord Strike with the planes
Are there any more to come?
Translated from the Arabic by Kareem James Abu-Zeid.
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