What we have, dear friends, is poetry. Only we can use it. We haven’t guns nor knives, bombs nor tanks; no flags to flaunt nor conch to blow;
When the close minded and hate-filled attempt it, it sounds so forced. That is because they are not really free; they are bound still, anchored still, still fearful of change, still clinging to ruin:
For if they were free they would know Poetry. They would lose all their scales and shed away their old skins to gain soft but powerful wings. To fan minds, raise gales. To soar, to soar.