Something wants to write. I was fine just drifting about in love, but a fervent spirit came knocking and I have to let it in… Who are we to say when the story of creation ends? We’re no more of an expert on truth than we are at knowing where we are. And you’ve the nerve to defile the earth’s water? Who are we to say we know who or what the creator is? None of us do. We only imagine we know. It’s all we can do, really, so we've no other recourse, save for sheer disbelief. If it weren’t for the conviction in our beliefs, we‘d end our war on earth. We’d craft heaven instead of agony. Restore her water! Replenish her soil, without the expectation of payment or profit. Give back creation’s air. Breathe in love, create love. Breathe. Who am I to ask for anything after the way I've behaved, after the way I've made love a bitterness? I've flooded my mind with righteousness, imagined myself king. I've desecrated the earth, damaged the capacity to receive and st
(The Weaver's Song)