IRON POET

Untitled

The air resounds with cries of panic loud
and tongues shoot up to form our people's pyre.
The temple's tapestries a flaming shroud;
Our greatness but a sob to strum of lyre
And paean of the topless towers afire.
The royal halls to foul Achaean's cry
Now run red from the heart of Hector's sire
Who fathered Paris of the roving eye
That brought us to our doom beneath the sky.
He gained the prize that Menelaeus lost.
A thousand ships upon the foam did fly-
And how we learned what goddess' anger cost.
The brass-bright vault the smokes of horrors wend-
The sacrifice will tell the gods our end.

Jane Mailander
(#1602 M)