The bronze is bright beneath the noon-day sun,
As two great lions circle on the sand;
The race of fate and glory has begun,
Upon the edges of a weary land.
One fights for vengeance for a fallen friend,
With heels that barely touch the dusty ground;
The other fights a city to defend,
While weeping women watch from walls around.
A spear is cast, a shield of silver breaks,
The pride of Troy is leveled in the dust;
The very earth beneath the conflict quakes,
Beneath the weight of blood and ancient lust.
The victor drags the fallen through the gate,
The final harvest of a bitter fate.
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