Shelter the children. And the creatures that keep them: the furred, webbed, winged, gilled. And the eyes that still see them, even when they have been cast in the role of immature versions of the enemy monster by the monster who does not see himself.
Shelter the unburied, and the spirits of the dead, and the mirrors. That all who kill may recognize the killers and allow into the long night of their making the light of the despised and dispossessed, and meet them, weeping, to eat together, and by this light and the flame of their shared meal, to burn the rot of empire from its host, the living body of the river of bodies into one beginning, away from this collective end.
Shelter God and the name of God and the children of unrecognized gods and the children of men and winged creatures everywhere, the webbed and gilled, furred, and waiting, and all who hold a single question: if I live, how will I? Who hold this up, round and luminous, the reflective whole of its trembling body against every imperative to kill, against every impulse to look away.
