Joan Baez - Baptism (1968) by Joan Baez (보컬) on maniadb.com

OLD WELSH SONG (Henry Treece)
I take with me where I go a pen and a golden bowl;
Poet and beggar step in my shoes, or a prince in a purple shawl.
I bring with me when I return to the house that my father's hands made,
A crooning bird on a chrystal bough and, o, a sad, sad word!

I SAW THE VISION OF ARMIES (Walt Whitman)

I saw the vision of armies;
and I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags,
borne through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles, I saw them,
and carried, hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody;
and at last but a few shreds of 'the flags left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)
and the staffs all splintered and broken.

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
and the white skeletons of young men, I saw them;
I saw the debris and debris of all dead soldiers,
But I saw they were not as was thought;
they themselves were fully at rest, they suffered not;
the living remained and suffered, the mother suffered,
and the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffered,
and the armies that remained suffered..

MINISTER OF WAR (translated form the Chinese by Arthur Waley)
Minister of War, we are the king's claws and fangs.
Why should you roll us on from misery to misery,
giving us no place to stop in or take rest?

Minister of War, we are the king's claws and teeth.
Why should you roll us from misery to misery,
Giving us no place to come and stay?

Minister of War, surely you are not wise.
Why should you roll us from misery to misery?
We have mothers who lack food

there are great puddles of blood on the world
where is it all going? all this spilled blood?
is it the earth that drinks it and gets drunk?
funny kind of drunkography then,
so wise,
so monotonous,
no,
the earth doesn’t get drunk
the earth doesn’t turn askew
it pushes its little car regularly, it’s four seasons,
rain, snow, hail, fair weather,
never is it drunk
it’s with difficulty it permits itself from time to time
an unhappy little volcano
it turns, the earth,
it turns with its trees, its gardens, its houses
it turns with its great pools of blood
and all living things turn with it and bleed

it doesn’t give a damn the earth
it turns
and all living things set up a howl,
it doesn’t give a damn,
it turns
it doesn’t stop turning
and the blood doesn’t stop running

where’s it going all this spilled blood?
murder’s blood, war’s blood, misery’s blood,
and the blood of men tortured in prisons,
and the blood of children calmly tortured by their papa and their mama
and the blood of men whose heads bleed in padded cells
and the roofers blood when the roofer slips and falls from the roof
and the blood that comes and flows in great gushes with the newborn
the mother cries,
the baby cries,
the blood flows
the earth turns
the earth doesn’t stop turning,
the blood doesn’t stop flowing

where’s it going all this spilled blood?
blood of the blackjacked,
of the humiliated,
of suicides
of firing squad victims
of the condemned
and the blood of those that die just like that
by accident

in the street a living being goes by with all his blood inside
suddenly there he is, dead
and all his blood outside
and other living beings make the blood disappear
they carry the body away
but it’s stubborn the blood
and there where the dead one was,
much later, all black,
a little blood still stretches
coagulated blood,
life’s rust, body’s rust
blood curdled like milk,
like milk when it turns,
when it turns like the earth,
like the earth it turns with its milk,
with its cows,
with its living,
with its dead,
the earth that turns with its trees,
with it’s living beings, its houses
the earth that turns with marriages,
burials,
shells,
regiments,
the earth that turns and turns and turns
with its great streams of blood.

I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse

In Guernica the dead children were layed out in order on the sidewalk
In their white starched dresses
In their pitiful white dresses
On their foreheads and breasts the little round holes where death came in as thunder while they were playing their important summer games
Do not weep for them, Madre
They are gone forever, the little ones
Straight to heaven to the saints
And God will fill the bullet holes with candy

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry
Go to sleepy, little baby
When you wake you shall have
All the pretty little horses

Way down yonder in the meadow
Lies a poor little lambie
Bees and butterflies, picking out its eyes
Poor little thing's crying, "Mami"

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry
Go to sleepy, little baby.

Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
In the morning, when we rise, In the morning, when we rise
That's the time
That's the time
I love the best

Green is the color of the sparkling corn
In the morning, when we rise, In the morning, when we rise
That's the time
That's the time
I love the best

Blue is the color of the sky
In the morning, when we rise, In the morning, when we rise
That's the time
That's the time
I love the best

Mellow is the feeling that I get
When I see her, uhh-hmm, When I see her, oh yeah
That's the time
That's the time
I love the best

Freedom is a word I rarely use
Without thinking, oh yeah, Without thinking, hm-m
Of the time
Of the time
When I've been loved

Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
In the morning, when we rise, In the morning, when we rise
That's the time
That's the time
I love the best

on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the merry deer ran before.

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
the swift sweet deer
the red rare deer.

Four red roebuck at a white water
the cruel bugle sang before.

Horn at hip went my love riding
riding the echo down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the level meadows ran before.

Softer be they than slippered sleep
the lean lithe deer
the fleet flown deer.

Four fleet does at a gold valley
the famished arrow sang before.

Bow at belt went my love riding
riding the mountain down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the sheer peaks ran before.

Paler be they than daunting death
the sleek slim deer
the tall tense deer.

Four tell stags at a green mountain
the lucky hunter sang before.

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
my heart fell dead before.

I want to sleep the dream of the apples
To withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries
I want to sleep the dream of that child
Who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas
I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood
That the putrid mouth goes on asking for water
I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass
Nor of the moon with the serpent's mouth that labors before dawn
I want to sleep a while
A while, a minute, a century
But all must know that I have not died
That there is a stable of gold in my lips
That I am the small friend of the west wind
That I am the immense shadow of my tears
Cover me at dawn with a veil
Because dawn will throw fists full of ants at me
And wet with hard water my shoes
So that the pincers of the scorpion slide
For I want to sleep the dream of the apples
To learn a lament that will cleanse me of the earth
For I want to live with that dark child
Who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him, thy son.
Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one

OLD WELSH SONG (Henry Treece)
I take with me where I go a pen and a golden bowl;
Poet and beggar step in my shoes, or a prince in a purple shawl.
I bring with me when I return to the house that my father's hands made,
A crooning bird on a chrystal bough and, o, a sad, sad word!