What is worth our agony
if not the glory that will be
seized from stone in steely fort
and forged from molten foes cut short?
Is it worth our agony
to bloody limbs whilst bending knee
before a marble man who stands
upon the backs of his right hands?
Tell me, what is agony
but a dead man’s twisted plea
that drowns in rushing copper cries
until the slave’s last whimper dies?
Who is spared from agony?
I tell you, neither you or me —
for honor makes fools of us all,
bound by oath until we fall.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
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