Friday, November 13, 2015

November 13, 2015. Paris.

Bob Dylan wrote a song, probably in late 1962, probably partly in response to the Cuban missile crisis. That song is “Masters of War,” and here are the lyrics:

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
...
You that build the big 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 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
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 o’er your grave
’Til I’m sure that you’re dead

http://www.bobdylan.com/us/songs#ixzz3rQW5uHX2

The rage there has a history, and it has not gone away or ended. But the end of that rage is simply death. That is the frightening thing about the events today in France, about this song, about the world in which we live. The end of rage is not peace, not justice. It is simply death. Look at the final verse. There’s no hope there. There is only rage and death.

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 o’er your grave
’Til I’m sure that you’re dead


There are times when I wish I had a belief in a god of peace and justice. But all the gods seem to be gods of war and hatred and death. And so I do not believe. I hope, but hope comes increasingly more difficult. And I do not hope for more deaths, but I’m afraid a lot of people out there will agree with Dylan:

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 o’er your grave
’Til I’m sure that you’re dead

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