This land is your land and this land is my land, sure, but the

“This land is your land and this land is my land, sure, but the world is run by those that never listen to music anyway.” Thus spoke Bob Dylan, poet and prophet of the twentieth century, whose voice carried both melody and thunder. In these words he lifts a veil from the truth of our age: the earth belongs to all, yet power is often wielded by those deaf to the beauty of music, blind to the spirit that unites humanity. For Dylan does not merely speak of sound, but of the deeper meaning of listening—of opening the heart to harmony, compassion, and imagination.

The origin of this saying lies in Dylan’s own inheritance of song. He draws from the words of Woody Guthrie—“This land is your land, this land is my land”—a hymn to shared belonging and common humanity. Yet Dylan, ever the restless voice, adds a bitter truth: though songs declare equality, it is often the unfeeling, the unlistening, the practical rulers without poetry in their souls who hold the reins of the world. Where Guthrie dreamed of unity, Dylan warns of rulers who know power but not beauty, authority but not empathy.

Consider history’s testimony. The tyrants of the world, those who silenced songs and suppressed art, often held armies and laws in their grip. Yet though they commanded nations, they were empty of music. Nero, it is said, fiddled while Rome burned—not in love of melody, but in mockery of suffering. Stalin distrusted poets, fearing the power of words sung with fire. These rulers may have bent the world to their will for a time, yet they did so without harmony, without listening to the symphony of the people’s soul. Dylan’s words remind us that such leaders govern not with wisdom, but with deafness.

And yet, though the world is run by those who never listen to music, it is shaped—quietly, deeply, eternally—by those who do. Consider the life of Beethoven, who though deaf, listened inwardly to the music of the cosmos, creating symphonies that stirred mankind to hope. Or think of the spirituals sung by enslaved peoples in America, which sustained their souls and foretold freedom long before chains were broken. Though the rulers of their time sought to silence them, the songs endured, carrying truth further than decrees ever could.

Dylan’s teaching, then, is not despair but warning: do not look only to those who hold worldly power, for their ears are often closed. Instead, remember that music—the voice of the heart, the rhythm of justice, the cry of humanity—belongs to the people. It is the people who keep the world alive, even when rulers do not listen. Though the world may be run by the unlistening, it is saved by those who sing.

The lesson is clear: do not live deaf to beauty. Do not silence the music in your own life, for in music you find empathy, imagination, and the strength to endure. Whether you play an instrument, sing a song, or simply open your heart to listen, you are resisting the coldness of a world ruled by those without melody. In listening, you keep alive the thread of humanity that binds us all.

Therefore, let each one take this action: make time for music. Listen not only with the ear, but with the soul. Let it soften your heart toward others, and remind you that the land is not merely soil to be owned, but a shared dwelling for all mankind. Sing with your children, sing with strangers, sing even when the world seems harsh. For though power may rest in the hands of those who never listen, true life belongs to those who do.

So let Dylan’s words resound through the ages: “This land is your land and this land is my land, sure, but the world is run by those that never listen to music anyway.” Let them be both warning and call to arms. Guard the music within you, for it is the truest form of freedom. Though rulers may govern with silence, you can live with song. And a life lived with song is stronger than any throne, for it carries eternity in its echo.