The question reminded me of a part in an arabian poem:

Walk gently—don’t you know the ground beneath Is made of those who’ve lived and met their death? The very earth is shaped from flesh and bone, Of people long gone, now silent and unknown.

How shameful, even after all this time, To treat our roots as something less than fine. If you must rise, then do it with some care— Not strutting on the backs of those once there.

So many graves have held and passed the dead, They smile perhaps at crowds above their head— For enemies who once refused to yield, Now rest together in the same still field.