Spartans

In the rugged hills of Laconia they stood,
Spartan sons of iron will and stone‑clad pride,
Their crimson cloaks a flare against the pale,
A shield of bronze, a spear that would not bide.

From boyhood’s harsh agoge they were forged,
Each step a lesson in austere dissent,
Silence their tongue, their hearts with honour gorged,
Their lives a hymn to courage oft‑misspent.

At Thermopylae they held the narrow pass,
Three hundred thin against the Persian tide,
With phalanx tight and resolute, steadfast,
They turned the mountain into gloried pride.

No lavish feast, no soft and yielding bed,
Only barley broth and bed of hardened earth,
Yet in their eyes a fire fiercely fed,
A liberty won by sacrificial worth.

When dawn would break over the Eurotas’ gleam,
Their footsteps echoed like a drum of war,
A legacy etched in bronze and in dream,
Sparta’s stern whisper forevermore.