We know so little about ourselves, what triggers our detonation, leaves our mark upon flesh shaping turncoats of love. We can’t stay clean of our affliction, our very presence is vulgar and empty. The seven virtues tremble and screech fleeing such redness, fearing infection. Chastity hasn’t the appetite for our hunger. Temperance hasn't control over our deeds. Charity discerns we’re thieves of all things. Diligence sees our work and staggers deep. Patience shall not our turmoil stay again. Kindness cannot penetrate our human boil. Humility shall never defy our foul arrogance. The deluded champions of this trampled story suffer from humdrum sleep and idle dreams, they’re us and we’re innocent until approved. What are we to do with such dismal weakness, the contemptible collapse of obligation and honor? O! We know so little about anything worth saving! All the progress we’ve made is a breach of love! If we are to begin anew, we’ll need be born again, hatched
(The Weaver's Song)