There’s this rule I follow. Treat all as my equal. All. (There’s a drum in that and a violin. There’s a flute letting down her hair, a cello thrumming its way into my heart. Boom! Boom went the bomb when humankind’s tongue began to toil, money’s more precious than even Heaven, but not oil! Money’s the root and greed has drawn man as a stick figure in a land of trees.) There’s not one child alive today because of a bomb constructed from greed! (Boom! Boom! Boom is not for man’s virulent rage and loveless smirks spinning their shells into a final war, a self-propelled Armageddon, Boom! Boom! Boom!) Boom is for Creation. The profit from misery recoils in gloom and leaves all without breath, without flesh, without. (You’re too frightened to think beyond your nose, you’re pushed up against your loving glass trying to steal a glance of your true reflection! Why does the magnitude of Love hold us here?) I’ll not find heaven until I Love....
(The Weaver's Song)