The book of humanity is bloodstained. Its torn pages are flags from wars of defeated civility. Its fragmented sentences drag the bodies of the dead behind them. Its prepositional phrases are sent off to detention camps. Some will burn the book of humanity, claim it never existed. Others will tend to its battered thoughts, teach its scarred eyes to reopen. When we gather together the book’s battle-bruised letters, give them new shape and sound, resonance and responsibility, the words will chime like bells. What once was lost is now alive.