I’m going back out before the rain starts falling:
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 and 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 sinking
But I’ll know my song well before I start singing.
It’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard:
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.
Excerpt from Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall by Bob Dylan