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.