Am I not capable of greatness if I’ll but still my tongue and use my limbs and spirits to vanquish the dreadful sword? I tell myself to fear the unfamiliar faces that are found in my reflection. I tell myself I’ve Love to spare while my fists come booming. Do I really need another enemy when I’ve more adversaries than champions? I tell myself I'm compassionate even as the unkindness goes on raging. I tell myself I'm beautiful even as my ugliness disfigures the heart. Can’t I imagine myself vanquished without having to dream up hideous foes draped in fear-stained flags? I tell myself I'm most loving even as hatred’s dagger punctures my scowling lips. I tell myself I'm peaceful even as war slathers blood across the land. Aren't I sufficient enough with the tools of death to bring the blade across Love's neck with minimal suffering? I must begin to tell myself I'm safe even as my own looming death’s unknown. I must begin to tell myself that
(The Weaver's Song)