Obolus
Sing, O Muse, of confusion, hidden.
Where is Charon? For he's bidden
To provide the service, only he
Of river-ferry, for a fee.
Acheron, the final toil
Of the hero, shuffl'd from mortal coil.
Greater than a man was He
Who led His Army to the sea.
A King of Men, A God Devine,
Libations to Him, unwatered wine.
Across and beyond, far and wide
His soldiers followed, matching stride.
Many souls who remain un-named
Followed this Man to lands un-tamed.
And battle there, these slaves did.
And met their demise, lest they forbid
Death from collecting all that's his:
For Death knows all; sees all; is.
Assault, rage; long and bitter.
Mortals fought, died; none the gritter.
Numbers dwindled on the flanks,
The Monarch lost all men of rank.
Yet on He brawled, to the lines
To muster, rally, raise ensigns.
This Danaan King and his slaves,
Caste, status and fear they laved.
A clash of bronze, a shimmer of gold;
A furious sight, ere enemy, to behold.
And on they fought, with godlike might,
Until Tyche ended their plight.
A spear, thrust with Immortal verity,
Bound for the Prince, in all sincerity,
Struck, instead, a surf, a slave
Who gave his life, forever brave.
At this, the Magnate, in great despair,
Loosed fell words into the air:
"I give-up and give-in, I concede;
I mourn this slave, this man, un-freed.
Pray, I leave him silver coin,
The boatman's payment, to let him join
Kin and kindred, flesh and bone,
In immortal lands; not alone."
Mourn thee not, Argive Commander,
The slave is at peace; naught Scamander.
Charon the boatman ferries him now,
To the Elysian Fields, on his godly prow.
There is a price, all know it well,
To secure passage; escape from Hell.
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