P ut a single bullet in the palm of your hand, it lays there, obedient, glistening, motionless, weighing no more than a thought. S e w all grenades into the sleeves of white dress shirts making sure to leave the pins fully engaged and they shall never again need ironing. Gently lower all IEDs to the furthest depths of the sea among the a mazing and peculiar mysteries of the deep and strange creatures shall dance to their silence. Pla c e all the military tanks on the planet into large pots, stoke all the furnaces and melt them down into a liquid and from them erect millions of rolling libraries. Hang all rifl e s and handguns from the surface of the moon like an airplane mobile or a holiday tree ornament, and listen to the wind make a jo y ful nois e . Sculpt all manner of bomb s into enormous statues, whose eyes look down and w hose brows are furrowed, and merrily stare back into their dreary fac e s. Pla c e a world of peace in the palm of your hand, feel it gently bre a
(The Weaver's Song)