I found a painting, a grizzled drawing of a man in search of himself among the trees, his limbs cracking away the paleness in the air, his face, filled with horrors, ashen and grave, fading now into the bitter wind and frozen ocean. The sun stood bright against his fragile limbs and birds feasted upon the many fallen seeds left here by the old world, the most recent past, history, when his kind offended their home and ended their Love, now stood as a new story. With goodness blooming upon the garden’s soil, I sensed nature’s music as a rebirth, a warning to my half-open eyes, sour mouths pursed upon the muted roars of my kind, the raging seas of a never-ending slaughter. At life's most significant time, the cry of Love, the howl of a nearby influence arose to speak to me without language, to remind me what’s been concluded, to ring the bell for goodness and kinship. And, as I looked at the painting, its silence composed a song over the dulled clamor, the curve of the sun’
(The Weaver's Song)