Spoils of War

“If it is to be,
let it be without struggle.”

Sing, O Goddess,
Not of the rage of Achilles,
Or the ruthless sword of Hector,
For bards have done enough justice to their gorey deeds over the centuries.

Sing of the wrath of Clytemnestra,
Queen of Mycenae;
who ruled in steely silence for ten years to be able to bathe in her husband’s blood,

Sing of Helen,
Demigoddess, Ruler of men;
the Queen who left her throne in exchange for a chance of being more than just a pretty face,
for a breath of fresh air,
and for the greatest War in all of history.

Sing of Penthesilea,
Queen of the Amazons,
the great hearted daughter of
man-slaying Ares;
the woman who didn’t beg for mercy
even with Achilles’ sword in her heart,
the warrior whose corpse bought the mighty Achaean to his knees.

Sing of Iphigenia,
Princess of Mycenae;
the fair daughter who didn’t tremble even when her own father picked up
the sword that would slit her throat,
whose gold-laden flesh had to be thrown onto the pyres of sacrifice to appease the Virgin Goddess.

Kings fight
and soldiers die.
But the clanging of their swords
echoes well into the vastness of infinity.

Sing not of
the Men of the Golden Age,
the heroes of the battlefield;

Sing, O Goddess,
Of the Spoils of War.

2 thoughts on “Spoils of War

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