The Prophecy

There's a voice on the wind of the world
speaking dreams from the ancient books:
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruninghooks.

Have you heard the voice in the darkness,
coming up from the foggy past?
Do you hear, you winged warriors,
over the cyclonic blast
of motors, and the shriek of the bombs as
     they fall?
Did you hear it, you beautiful sons,
you dead of Caen and Tarawa,
as you fell in the flash of the guns?

You can hear it, earth, you can hear it
in the crackle of cities that burn,
in the lancing cry of the children,
in the silence of those who will never return.

There's a voice on the wind of the world,
beating loud on the uttermost shore:
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more.

There's a voice on the wind of the world,
the voice long-crushed.
Woe to the waters, the dust and the cloud,
if the voice be hushed!

--Lon Woodrum