‘Where have all the flowers gone
Long time passing?
Where have all the flowers gone
Long time ago?’
We went through a lot of flowers, my generation did, a lot of flowers.
We planted them and watered them from Aquarius’ pitcher. We picked and scattered them across the land, around the world. Wove them into our hair, set them in the barrels of rifles held by young, frightened soldiers just before we cursed them and spat in their faces.
We covered the ground with them, and stood barefoot on them under blue skies to sing our wedding vows to Saffron robed, bearded Hindu teachers whose strange ways mystified our bewildered parents.
We made blankets of them, drank dew from them, smoked a few of them. Sat for many a delirious hour staring with dilated pupils at them. Named children after them. Took them for our own names.
We were the flower children, we reveled in Flower Power. We painted them on our clothes, cars, buses, airplanes, trains, boats, our bodies and faces.
And then, one day, for some reason, we all collectively just said;
And the flowers went away.
According to the song, young girls picked them all; then the girls went to young men, the men to soldiers, the soldiers to graveyards, and the graveyards to flowers. And if you drive by the graveyards, sure enough, there they are, all the flowers.
“Where have all the flowers gone?
Gone to young girls every one
When will they ever learn
When will they ever learn?”