In the beginning was great silence. And the silence was with all. And the silence was love. And the silence was vast. And the silence was gentle. And the silence was good. And the silence draped all things. Life emerged from the great silence and love coated eternity, affection exhaled its residue, the sound was noiseless, silence was worship. And of the goodness, we waged battles in Eden and noise was king. A chasm filled with longing rose up to our cries of “why”. Man sought his demise in the darkness and filled his mind with noise. Why did we leave ourselves quivering while the eagle lifted its cry and our child was born? Man unwrapped his jaws, shattering stillness with ownership. Prophets of doom float near. Harbingers of the dark call our name. Where is love? Where is our affection, our hands of charity? In the buildings of our worship, under our idle feet, beneath our contempt, poking out its head like a newborn child searching for happiness, air? Snuff out the indig
(The Weaver's Song)