(Peter Yarrow)

I've seen a thousand people kneel in silence

And I've seen them face the rifles with their songs

I always thought that we could end the killing

But now I live in fear that I was wrong



The killer and the cynic waltz together

Their eyes are turned into their skulls

They do not feel the bullets in the bodies

They do not hear the dolphins or the gulls



If we do these things in the greenwood,

what will happen in the dry?



If we don't stop there'll come a time when women

With barren wombs will bitterly rejoice

With breasts that dry and never fill with promise

Gladly they'll not suckle one more life



Is this then the whimper and the ending?

The impotence of people raised on fear,

A fear that blinds the sense of common oneness

Common love and life or death are here



If we do these things in the greenwood,

what will happen in the dry?



Will no one light the candle in the darkness

Will no one be my guide, not let me fall

I've lost the sense that tells me where the path is

I feel the chill of winter in my soul



There's no way I can say the words more plainly

There's no one left to point at anymore

It's you and me and we must make the choice now

And not destroy the life we're living for



If we do these things in the greenwood,

what will happen in the dry?

If we do these things in the greenwood,

what will happen in the dry?