Amid trees lined up as a marching band in front of Government House, a young woman sang a protest song far too beautifully for him to hear the protest in it.  He had mistaken it for a love song till, as those gathering around became a small crowd, he heard protests break in.  He drew closer to the periphery to hear the two men shouting, Cry babies! Cry babies!, drowning out a group of four yelling, Stop the deaths! Stop the deaths!  It was impossible to hear the singer.  He sidled past the protestors, closer, to take in the latter half of her song — of a mother speaking of her living love for a son lost to a faraway war.  He felt himself made weak and weaker by the singer’s elegiac rendering of the mother’s words.  He wondered if the singer’s way of protest was to induce this very weakness.  When, then, at song’s end, the singer turned instantly and abruptly away, he knew.  Her way to change hearts was first to break them.