Away with us, he's going,
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hill-side.
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast;
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than
he can understand.
~ W.B. Yeats, The Stolen Child
I really cannot speak further on this subject.
On the madness of mixing madness and autoloading weaponry I cannot convince anyone who cannot be convinced by dead children.
Mr. Yeats has said it already, and better than I ever will.