Thermopylae 300
A merit of lonesome, Persephone's dark ocean
we received. A strong red wine, a wake of pain
that stings. A ghostly clad chorus, a lost odd zone
of Hades and Styx. A gloomy dim swaying
an abstract dull pain, I felt, an emotional strain.
One brink of sacrifice to feel this Charon sigil
as wrought spears pierce, as swords blunted thrust
to acompany this Styx quarry, comply our vigil
sweaty crimson trickles on shield, as lives combust..
Slay, thrust, pierce, a darkened Hydras' task force,
of Hercules, our Dorian ancestor to honor, and kill,
as Pluton, reins proudly the canter of his horse,
as sun sets to crown a new macabre of blood spill.
Three hundred rain drops, and two that remain
to offer again, a destiny altered, a deadly refrain,
denial spelled about my life, over her throne
and there cold air, is to betray, the death of my soul..
A mantle of arrows we wore, a lost last embrace,
a scattered emotion, a gathered devotion, away,
my fingers so callous of a never charisma to trace
there is nothing to encounter, a mist plea to obey
white of candor, a blanket of valor, so death will stay.
One thousand rain drops to bestow domain to fly
up in the clouds, Olympian Laws, this wild garland
passengers of time, the epigraph read, vows comply
in a Plutonian kingdom, a cold old endeavor of blood..
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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