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A small state, few people. |
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Let there be tools of tens and hundreds, yet let them go unused; |
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let the people hold death as grave and not wander far. |
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Though there are boats and carriages, |
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there is no place to ride them; |
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though there are armor and weapons, |
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there is no place to array them. |
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Let the people return to tying knots and using them. |
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Sweet their food, |
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beautiful their clothes, |
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peaceful their dwellings, |
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joyful their customs. |
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Neighboring states look upon one another; |
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the sounds of chickens and dogs are heard by both; |
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the people, until old age and death, |
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do not come and go between them. |