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.
Armchair Poetry 