Arabic, Assyrian, Babylonian, Phoenician, Hebrew, Aramaic，
The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back. The rose is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers under his purple umbrella, and nods -- forward and back, staring into the air with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a rosebud pushes between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to the ground with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and grows, with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly forward, but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream of blood.
The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the chimney, as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars.
There was a man Who made his living By painting roses Upon silk.
He sat in an upper chamber And painted, And the noises of the street Meant nothing to him.
When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums, He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses Bursting in the sunshine, And smiled as he worked.
He thought only of roses, And silk. When he could get no more silk He stopped painting And only thought Of roses.
The day the conquerors Entered the city, The old man Lay dying. He heard the bugles and drums, And wished he could paint the roses Bursting into sound.
Now what in the name of the sun and the stars Is the meaning of this most unholy of wars?
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