And who will write songs of love for you
When war has scarred all song.
When the bombs have burned enough children,
scorched their cities, disfigured their deserts,
When the tyrants have played out their game of oil and empire,
Leaving the earth's fields drenched in blood, the air poisoned,
the atmosphere shaking with terror, prisons echoing with torture;
When the greedy kings of commerce have squeezed their grip
on the resources of the world;
When the hate-spewing media have drained the human voice
Of all song:
What love is left in me?

What love has left in me I leave for love:
No commerce will it have with the hatred,
The demon, that possesses the vile voice
Of self-anointing leaders. Let their violent words
Pass over us, beneath us, mere noise; our love
Will not yield to their anger, will not see itself
Mirrored in their fuming, bitter, scowling faces.

Let them blacken the green earth, burn up its beauty,
Let them darken the sky with their death-seeking missiles;
They cannot take our world from us; we will be there
When they are finished. We will rebuild what the monsters have deformed;
Our love will stand when their hatred has spent itself;
And when their voices are silent, hoarse with screaming,
We shall sing those songs of love once more.
Then, my love, shall I write love songs for you.