Man, who has brightened up his face with civilization’s rouge, displays the dark dust which is he as if it were a mirror.

He hides his iron fist under a velvet glove. Charmed by the pen, he has laid off the sword.

This slave of lust once built an idol-temple of world peace, and danced around it to the music of the pipes of peace.

But when war tore the veil off its pretence, it stood exposed as man’s blood-thirsty enemy.