The victor will be called the hero by future generations. Arguing about good and evil is pointless.
Vegetable Lamb of Tartary
E'en round the Pole the flames of love aspire, and icy bosoms feel the secret fire. Cradled in snow, and fanned by Arctic air. Shines, gentle borametz, thy golden hair. Rooted in earth, each cloven foot descends, and round and round her flexile neck she bends, Crops the grey coral moss, and hoary thyme, or laps with rosy tongue the melting rime. Eyes with mute tenderness her distant dam, and seems to bleat – a vegetable lamb.
