Poems of Meng Jiao
Mourning my country's childhood death
It's vain to say that men are most divine when
They scatter their white bones so casually.
What if I should die this spring
Before the meadows fully blossom?
Yao and Shun ruled Heaven and Earth with
Farmer's tools and not the tools of soldiers.
Qin and Han robbed the mountain peaks,
Forging iron death instead of iron plows.
Heaven and Earth do not give birth to gold.
Gold is born from human strife.
A culture that towers above all other ages in its humanity. Blood splattered on the garden walls. White bones strewn upon the ground. The final lines are revealing. Fourteen hundred years ago, war was only about the money. There is nothing new under the sun.