“And now watch this: Against Babylon, I’m inciting the Medes, A ruthless bunch indifferent to bribes, the kind of brutality that no one can blunt. They massacre the young, wantonly kick and kill even babies. And Babylon, most glorious of all kingdoms, the pride and joy of Chaldeans, Will end up smoking and stinking like Sodom, and, yes, like Gomorrah, when God had finished with them. No one will live there anymore, generation after generation a ghost town. Not even Bedouins will pitch tents there. Shepherds will give it a wide berth. But strange and wild animals will like it just fine, filling the vacant houses with eerie night sounds. Skunks will make it their home, and unspeakable night hags will haunt it. Hyenas will curdle your blood with their laughing, and the howling of coyotes will give you the shivers. “Babylon is doomed. It won’t be long now.”

For here’s what God told me: “I’m not going to say anything, but simply look on from where I live, Quiet as warmth that comes from the sun, silent as dew during harvest.” And then, just before harvest, after the blossom has turned into a maturing grape, He’ll step in and prune back the new shoots, ruthlessly hack off all the growing branches. He’ll leave them piled on the ground for birds and animals to feed on— Fodder for the summering birds, fodder for the wintering animals.