Let’s stop warring, people. In this life we’re all of one seed. We must prepare, plan to remember, truth’s fallen from our soul and we’ve got to put it all back again. We need remember this, our time, so we might carry it around again, witness the semblance, our blueblood red exactness, our lofty call to come back to crimson remembrance. When the Robin drafts its melody and we whistle away our connection, we've bitten into deception, planted a kernel of deceit without a second reflection. Brothers and sisters, let’s not agonize upon the preciousness of our original connection. Let us pray we remember, let us pray we remember, let us pray we remember. What will our chronicle say? That we knew, yet did nothing, knew, yet still fell into the noise, or, we returned smiling with truth? It may feel like pain, ache lowdown, bruise the self to redness, tear away at our useless flesh, yet, its speech, echoes truth of which we cannot deny, no books or miracles to cast about, n...
(The Weaver's Song)