The Spartans answered him: You ask too soon.
It is the feast of Carneian Apollo,
Our ancient horned god of flock and field,
The field where men are harvesters and harvest,
Where men are yield because they will not yield.
Life for us is debt that must be serviced;
The husbandry of victory is blood,
Blood is the earth’s enrichment, and Man’s fate.
We’re soldiers bred; our orders are to follow,
We are pall-bearers only of the shield:
With it or on it. None, it’s understood,
Returns unless victorious. Too late,
Too late, you say. We answer: you must wait,
As we must wait, the fullness of the moon.
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