Why Not?

 
"Alive he is adored by men,
desired by women, and finest to look upon
when he falls dead in the forward clash." - Tyrtaeus






The hill is scattered with men like diamonds, just less rare
and easier to find. Moving into formations, the mass
of shadows are a flickering tide. Death's not so beautiful
when your heart quickens; becomes more prominent.
You kept these bits in the chambers, Tyrtaeus. The screaming
is abstract; shapeless. Ferocity and fear aren't separate.
Even in daylight.

Enough blood seeped through earth to hallow this ground,
but the sight of the swarming arrows cast over the screams,
that created ten thousand bastards is gone.
The men are diamonds on the hill.
Power is always granted, and observed. Terror a decision.

Now the old wind carries new waves along the wheat
on the hill, and the farmer got fat, and why not?
Who or where he is, means little
when he lies there at night thinking about tomorrow
or the next day, or his funeral. All equally alone
with his wife so close, she knows he can hear her think.