John Lennon – Imagine

John Lennon – Imagine

Imagine there’s no heaven,
It’s easy if you try,
No hell below us,
Above us only sky,

Imagine all the people living for today…
Imagine there’s no countries,
It isn’t hard to do,Nothing to kill or die for,
No religion too,
Imagine all the people living life in peace…

Imagine no possesions,
I wonder if you can,
No need for greed or hunger,
A brotherhood of man,

Imagine all the people Sharing all the world…
You may say I’m a dreamer,
but I’m not the only one,
I hope some day you’ll join us,
And the world will live as one

This is the poem written and sung John Lennon..

He was the Rock star from the very famous Beatles group which rocked billions of people from Nineteen Sixties to Eighties . He was assassinated on December 8th 1980 at a concert in New York.

John Lennon-Life Story
1960 s
The world’s most powerful men are getting high on the sweet smell of napalm.
Vietnamese peasants vapourise into thin air. Nerds work overtime on Uranium-365.

Citizen Cohn’s shadow still lurks at Berkeley. McCarthy is dead but not buried.
A winter of discontent engulfs the Sorbonne. Life is elsewhere on the streets of Paris.
Conspiracy theories creep into the Kremlin.Laughable loves collapse into obsessions in Prague.

Here comes a working-class son. No money to go to college. Holes in his shoe soles. No trust in the system. Hope in his soul. A bloke with guitar in his hands. Music in his heart. And imagination.

Lyrics. Strings. And imagination.

He captures imagination on both sides of the pond. He raises love sickness to philosophical levels. Teen sensation. Psychedelic guru. Peacemaker. He knows when the first bullet is fired, politics goes out of the window.
He imagines a world where there is no war.
Love is the answer.

Naive. Romantic. Sex Symbol. A thinker. An Icon.
A cultural point of reference. A legend. He also plays music.
More popular than Jesus. Beatles Baba in the ganja-filled streets of Rishikesh. Guilty by suspicion in CIA files at Langley. Trapped in the deranged mind of Mark David Chapman.
It’s too good to last.

December 8, 1980.
A lonely street. A loaded gun. Four shots in Manhattan. Three pierced the heart. One lodged in the brain. End of music. End of poetry. Death of imagination.

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