In the year were children born, were wars waged, and markets opened. In the year were ships sunk, were markets falling, were deserts crossed, was oil spilt more freely than wine. In the year were plagues driven through towns and cities, were roads built, were bridges burnt; in that year, too, were pestilences common and the crops were eaten by locusts. In the year were roads torn up, laid low again, were monarchs deposed and democracies installed. In the year were democracies torn up, monarchs imposed, and roadsigns installed. In the year were maps made of the territory, were trees felled, were houses built. In the year were fields mown, burned, were towns razed, were nations ravaged. In the year were feasts held, were festivities celebrated, were plays open; then, too, were symphonies performed, the lyre and kithara sounding, and the flute, too. In the year were allegiances pledged, was treachery prevalent, were deals forced. In the year were aged slaughtered, were temples burnt. In the year were people left in peace, just briefly, to scratch a little living from the uneven land. Then came the year in which children were born, wars were waged, and markets again were opened.
And that, they say, was history.