Even the finest arms are an instrument of ill fortune,
Good weapons are instruments of fear,
All creatures fear them.
And the way for a vital person to go is not the way of a soldier.
Weapons, being an instrument of fear,
Are no measure of thoughtful people
Until they fail of all other choice
Save acceptance of them.
The person who thinks triumph is beautiful
Is one with a will to kill,
And one with a will to kill
Shall never prevail upon the earth.
On happy occasions, precedence is given to the left,
The commander-in-chief on the right.
War is thus conducted as a funeral.
The death of a multitude is cause for mourning:
Conduct your triumph as a funeral.