Where the bay flashed, and an unrecorded number
of the Persian troops, whip-flicked toward the spear-
clogged hourglass of the pass, were impaled and fell
screaming from the precipice to drown, the mirror
clogs: geography too gathers dust, though busloads
of us (sandaled Germans mostly), hankering for
the glitter of an essence, a principle that still
applies, a cruse of oil, a watershed no rain erodes,
find small inkling of what was staved off here,
or saved. A calcined stillness, beehives, oleanders,
polluted air, the hung crags livid; on the little hill
(beneath, the bay flashed as men fell and went under
screaming) where a stone lion once stood in honor
of that grade-school byword of a troop commander
Leonidas, we ponder a funneled-down inscription: Tell
them for whom we came to kill and were killed, stranger,
how brute beauty, valor, act, air, pride, plume here
buckling, guttered: closed in from behind, our spears
smashed, as, the last defenders of the pass, we fell,
we charged like tusked brutes and gnawed like bears
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