Die Geschichte kennt kein Wenn.
You could say history is like an endless waltz. Three measures of war, peace, and revolution continue in an endless cycle.
The tragic joke of human history is that on any of the altars men erected, it was always man whom they immolated and the animal whom they enshrined. It was always the animal's attributes, not man's, that humanity worshipped: the idol of instinct and the idol of force—the mystics and the kings—the mystics,
who longed for an irresponsible consciousness and ruled by means of the claim that their dark emotions were superior to reason, that knowledge came in blind, causeless fits, blindly to be followed, not doubted—and the kings, who ruled by means of claws and muscles, with conquest as their method and looting as their aim, with a club or a gun as sole sanction of their power.
Forests and deserts
Rivers, blue seas
Mountains and valleys
Nothing here stays
While we think we witness
We are part of the scene
This never ending story
Where will it lead to?
The earth is our mother
She gives and she takes
But she is also a part
A part of the tale.
We're part of a story, part of a tale
Sometimes beautiful
And sometimes insane
No one remembers
How it began.
Until the lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter.
History is much more the product of chaos than of conspiracy.