I hear the wind in the dead of night, and on it a million voices ride,
A world is crying out for help; vainly crying out for help,
But will it be denied?
I hear the babies at the milk-less breast; I hear them barely breathing.
I hear their mothers frantic wailing, “Help my child” I hear them wailing,
And then I hear them grieving.
I hear the suffering of the sick; I hear their tired cough,
I hear their groaning, exhausted moaning,
That they’ve finally had enough.
I hear the shouts of angry families, torn by abuse,
I hear the violence never ending, the pitch of voices, all ascending,
And, after, the excuse.
I hear the echo on the streets, of footsteps through the night,
I hear the homeless search for shelter, anywhere offering secure shelter,
Who will ease their plight?
I hear the wind in the early morn, bringing sounds of war,
A world is crying out for peace, vainly crying out for peace,
With a voice we just ignore.
I hear the injured soldiers scream; I hear them as they die,
I hear their families broken hearts, shattered lives, and funeral carts,
I hear them as they cry,
I hear the rumble of explosions, of terrorist attack,
I hear the piercing shriek of sirens, the futile warning of the sirens,
My resolve begins to crack.
I hear the wind that rolls the waves and whispers in the trees,
The world is calling out for care; vainly calling out for care,
But, the consumer disagrees.
I hear the cracking of the earth, drying in the sun,
I hear the plaintive cries of sheep, as they lay them down to sleep,
The lullaby of the gun.
I hear the protestations of a planet under stress,
The mournful cries of hunted whales, of ducks, of rabbits, and of snails,
The painful end to human pest.
I hear the heartbeat of the planet, no longer strong and sure,
I hear the earth’s lamentations, victim of our own temptations,
Exploited to the core.
Oh, the wind that turns the sails of the windmills of our souls,
Hear it call and cry in earnest, screaming whispers in deadly earnest,
Silenced by opinion polls.
Harken to the praises of the foolish, for their paper gods,
Their frenzied babble of devotion, to plastic life and cheap emotion,
And wisdom built on winks and nods.
I hear the lost who call for succor, unsure where to turn,
Who blindly stumble through confusion, in the darkness of illusion,
Seeking truth they can't discern.
I hear the wind in the dead of night, and on it a million voices..... fail.
Each hope and prayer and expectation, mangled for media mastication,
Just Love 'em or hate 'em, 'till the news is stale.