Two pages ago, did you read the journey of Elsa Dutton, and of what she discovered along the way? Bob Dylan made that same journey of discovery in 1962…
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains.
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways.
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests.
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans.
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard.
Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it.
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it.
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’.
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’.
I saw a white ladder all covered with water.
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken.
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children.
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder; it roared out a warnin’.
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world.
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’.
Heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’.
Heard one person starve; I heard many people laughin’.
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter.
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley.
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony.
I met a white man who walked a black dog.
I met a young woman whose body was burning.
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow.
I met one man who was wounded in love.
I met another man who was wounded with hatred.
Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore the rain starts a-fallin’.
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest.
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty.
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters.
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison.
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden.
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten.
Where black is the color, where none is the number.
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it.
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it.
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’.
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’.