A sea of sarissas glistening
In the sunshine. How deep are they?
Four–eight–sixteen rows? Doson is here
To finish what Alexander could not.
For seven years, we–I–held
Glory hostage. Achaeans crushed;
Traitorous Ephors executed; Megalopolis–
Symbol of our shame–sacked.
To wrest free our future,
I returned us to our Lycurgian past.
Now–atop Olympus–the last of our race,
Stoic, marshaled and restored, await the Fates.