(Words and Music by Joan Baez) 



It's walking to the battleground that always makes me cry 

I've met so few folks in my time who weren't afraid to die 

But dawn bleeds with the people here and morning skies are red 

As young girls load up bicycles with flowers for the dead 



An aging woman picks along the craters and the rubble 

A piece of cloth, a bit of shoe, a whole lifetime of trouble 

A sobbing chant comes from her throat and splits the morning air 

The single son she had last night is buried under her 



They say that the war is done 

Where are you now, my son? 



An old man with unsteady gait and beard of ancient white 

Bent to the ground with arms outstretched faltering in his plight 

I took his hand to steady him, he stood and did not turn 

But smiled and wept and bowed and mumbled softly, "Danke shoen" 



The children on the roadsides of the villages and towns 

Would stand around us laughing as we stood like giant clowns 

The mourning bands told whom they'd lost by last night's phantom messenger 

And they spoke their only words in English, "Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger" 



Now that the war's being won 

Where are you now, my son? 



The siren gives a running break to those who live in town 

Take the children and the blankets to the concrete underground 

Sometimes we'd sing and joke and paint bright pictures on the wall 

And wonder if we would die well and if we'd loved at all 



The helmetless defiant ones sit on the curb and stare 

At tracers flashing through the sky and planes bursting in air 

But way out in the villages no warning comes before a blast 

That means a sleeping child will never make it to the door 



The days of our youth were fun 

Where are you now, my son? 



From the distant cabins in the sky where no man hears the sound 

Of death on earth from his own bombs, six pilots were shot down 

Next day six hulking bandaged men were dazzled by a room 

Of newsmen. Sally keep the faith, let's hope this war ends soon 



In a damaged prison camp where they no longer had command 

They shook their heads, what irony, we thought peace was at hand 

The preacher read a Christmas prayer and the men kneeled on the ground 

Then sheepishly asked me to sing "They Drove Old Dixie Down" 



Yours was the righteous gun 

Where are you now, my son? 



We gathered in the lobby celebrating Chrismas Eve 

The French, the Poles, the Indians, Cubans and Vietnamese 

The tiny tree our host had fixed sweetened familiar psalms 

But the most sacred of Christmas prayers was shattered by the bombs 



So back into the shelter where two lovely women rose 

And with a brilliance and a fierceness and a gentleness which froze 

The rest of us to silence as their voices soared with joy 

Outshining every bomb that fell that night upon Hanoi 



With bravery we have sun 

But where are you now, my son? 



Oh people of the shelters what a gift you've given me 

To smile at me and quietly let me share your agony 

And I can only bow in utter humbleness and ask 

Forgiveness and forgiveness for the things we've brought to pass 



The black pyjama'd culture that we tried to kill with pellet holes 

And rows of tiny coffins we've paid for with our souls 

Have built a spirit seldom seen in women and in men 

And the white flower of Bac Mai will surely blossom once again 



I've heard that the war is done 

Then where are you now, my son? 



© 1973 Chandos Music (ASCAP)