Athena sings a siren's song Her court above A dying throng The shout, the scream, the cry, the groan The stab, the shear, their acts atone. The earth a pock-marked, Marred old drum Where bodies fall To Ares' thrum. An old folk's jig, They practice here, Though old men shrink, Cower. Fear. The young are able, Strong and bold Though new-born ears Want stories told Of glory, fortune, Fame and gold, Of Sparta's conquests New, then old To add to weaver's Work they seek And bloodied hands Foul havoc wreak. To plant a sigil, Mark their place They march for death, Fast cover space. The call of void, Is music sweet To men who howl, And cheer and eat Who march for days To battle's end And hallowed gods Their boons will lend To fight for honour, Country, home They chance their fate - Their choice alone And leave their Widow wives behind For fortune's wheel Remains to grind Their children's Little bones to dust So much for battle, This death-kissed lust. It's not the men Who seek to die That bare the brunt Of old man's lie - It's empty homes And stalls and schools Their empty streets Their silence rules. The old men spared They walk these paths And wheeze and gasp Amidst their laughs They dance a jig - Though this one's fine They touch and toe The sacred line. They lie and plot And seek to steal - Here rolls out now Old Fortune's wheel.