The Battle of Thermopylae

Pouring down the mountains,
Herds of men shining like the sun
With bronze weapons falsely
Disguised as possible gold.

Arrows and spears like a sea of splinters,
Wave upon wave beating down on honorable warriors.
Sparta was spent, as they had sent,
Their best to die for politics.

There was not one coward among them.
Not one of the five hundred shuddered
Upon the sight of the Persian King with
His three hundred thousand men.

Hades would welcome these brave warriors,
And attend to all their needs;
Their thirst, hunger and passionate loins,
All to be looked after, and gently caressed.

But for now only the cold would satisfy,
Only the smell of blood in their chest,
Only the burning wounds and lost comrades,
Only battle and honour sustained them.

Suddenly a messenger appeared:
“All of you who have defied the Great King,
Do not underestimate His mercy, surrender
And be saved, or die and be forever lost to this soil”

The Spartans remained, unmoved
Like proud stallions they stood their ground.
And brought sword to shield with loud bangs,
As if Zeus himself was thundering in the sky.

A hail of arrows alight with flame poured down
Upon these unexpected soldiers of war.
Many were wounded, silent in their agony and pride.
But there was one, unharmed and without fear; Aristarkhos.

The Lion of Sparta; tall as if built from roots,
Broad with arms of metal and thighs of stone,
Swifter than any arrow, stronger than Hercules himself,
In his black armor, waiting for the signal to attack.

And so the Spartiate warriors rushed into battle,
Forming four tight columns that
Ripped through the Persian defences,
With their blood-curdling cry.

They advanced like the ferocious force of nature itself,
Massacring all in their path, delivering cutting blows
Left and right creating a void around them.
Each time retreating for a moment and turning back to fight.

This incredible carousel repeated itself time after time;
Attacking each time, as if fuelled by some inexhaustible energy.
Aristarkhos, the lion in front of this reaper,
Swiping through the numerous army like wheat ready for harvest.

Drenched in sweat and blood, weary from
All these aggressive and precise attacks, they carried on
Even though the numbers outweighed them and the skies rained with arrows.
At last Aristarkhos fell into the dirt gasping his last breaths.

Exhausted, riddled with wounds the surviving warriors
Did not submit, but raised their shields to protect their king,
In his muted agony until they all fell, one after another,
On the blood soaked ground, already being mourned by the clouds.

The bravest of all people of known history,
From the greatest city had fallen; Sparta.