Where is the song, the verse to teach us truth, joy that is beautiful? Not the song that brings man to drop bombs and move others nearer their closing breath and leads us to murder, to cruelty, as if we hadn’t memorized our love, hadn’t perceived the sound of truth, witnessed the rage within us all. Where is the song... sung without self, without our stroke, the howling refrain without interpretation? We need remove our costume, take off the discordant uniform of flags, remove the banners we wear like smiles, panic pulled over our heads like a sweater, blind to what approaches below the fabric, beneath the fog of hatred worn in damp cellars packed with loathing. We need walk nearer the furtive truth, our oneness that looks with precision toward another. We don’t love that other song, the opus of destruction, lethal and hollow, a watery echo we can’t afford to sing, not for another minute. © 2010 by mark prime Anti-Violence Act Sends Hope to Women Around the World
(The Weaver's Song)