Picture
  A Glorious Death
 
Standing on the hillock overgrown
for thousands of years,
looking northward at the mountains
I ponder, shedding tears.

The souls of several hundred buried
deep beneath this ground,
cry out with the song of freedom
underneath this sacred mound.

I can feel the pain they suffered on
those glorious days gone by.
I can sense the depths of horror
that pierced deep inside their eyes.

Their crimson cloaks all shining
before the battles were set to start.
Shields at the ready, lances and
swords their deadly art.

Three hundred was their number as
they faced a godless horde,
fear could not beset them whilst
they fought for their kingly lord.
 
The battles were very bloody with
death and destruction all around,
human entrails and body parts
strewn across the ground.
 
The acrid smell of death wafting
in the air once fresh and sweet;
for three long days and nights
they fought no ordinary feat.

Their will could not be broken by
a million under arms.
The invincibles were paltry fodder
as Xerxes worked his charms.

Fighting to the death they did,
A Glorious Death for sure!
The death of all true warriors
Is an act that’s godly pure.

Moving to the hinterlands of spirit
forms with pride; knowing that
they did their best at the
Hot Gates in the flat.

Leonidis, I can hear you  and
Your words so strong and true;
A new age of men is coming sparked
with freedom through and through.

You will do well to know we heard
you and your dreams, we do attest.
The western world survives today
Because you gave us your best.

Three hundred you did sacrifice for
all generations yet to come.
Again we chant the battle cry
with the beating of the drum.

Our brothers in arms from ancient
times, we follow your swarthy ways.
We promise you we will not rest
that we would be enslaved.

A glorious death, we understand;
For freedom is not free.
But giving all as freemen, we shall
pass the gates with thee!