They combed their hair before the battle.
On the shield they admired their bodies.
Ready for death at any time and now
as with love once and its own gifts.
My, what battles it too hid
though it had its narrows open.
With bodies glossy as a panoply
they deride the Fates in Thermopylae.
“It’s better. We’ll fight in the shade,”
they smile and threaten with spirit
the entire time as if they had won.
Our works are human but immense
thanks to the spirit and this alone.
It’s a matter of choice.
“In the shade,” as Dienekes says.
With such words, chum, you go elsewhere.
To Thermopylae and a fabulous life.
To a secure, animate immortality.
For certain you feel it before the end.
Don’t pretend you can’t see it.
Don’t wonder of what avail.
Do set forth.
A horde of wild Persian spears.
But, don’t think, there’ll always be some Spartan
who’ll measure his phallus as if of an enormous size.
Then he’d laugh. An eternal child.
It’s this laugh that death hates most.
And if you are a man, you give it to death.
In the end they fought tooth and nail.
A naked, physical epilogue.
With rare self-sacrifice.
For the times and morals to inhale.
And let the crowds wonder about
the perishable, the heavens , the destined.
They didn’t want to live at all costs.
It was indeed a extreme choice
but their strategy had gist.
No needed weights in their transient life.
But gravity. Due gravity.