When the last merry gun had stilled and the cannons no more their glee, the friendly hillside fully tipped and poured forth a failing moan. It was observed that the mad rally of murder had slung back its odd grief upon the valiant influence of dissent and lifted away our Superman, breath snuffed, keen upon the plot. Kindness stepped out with the news treading the living shores of home. Soon the prayers had eaten enough foul lies and their blind wrath monstrously grew into hell’s rumbling cavern of vengeance. In this cave there are no friendlies, no shape, but that of fear and fury, our Superman when all else fails to stop the torrent of reasonless cries and endless lies and hopeless wars and gathering storms. Momentarily calming is the knowledge that death has visited yet another blameless child. Blameless! O! Let this thirst be driven out of our hunger! Stop this, our firing into the shadows of rage! O! I wander through these blackened ruins! I’m a friendly! Cease firing! I’m Pa...
(The Weaver's Song)