There it is, etched in stone, pure beauty
What a gem, a piece of classic workmanship and design
Who could possess such dexterity so as to create
And imbue the stone agate with a soul
They say the gods breathed life into man
But alas, humanity has surpassed them!
For the gods knew not how to give life to stone and rock
Only man can do this, shaping a being with his own hands
Depicting who and what he will, whether deity or mortal
Olympus, art thou angry? It is better that ye cry
You play with the lives of men as in a game
Encouraging war and deception, armies pillaging, burning
Leaving famine and pestilence in their wake
All, for the pleasure of the gods
Yes, Men and Women are thy playthings, oh Zeus
The Fates decree their future to be unfolded
In their personal quest for understanding
They meet upon some battlefield and perform
Willingly, they offer their lives for the promise of glory
To satisfy the blood lust of the gods of Olympus
The clashing of muscled heroes, wielding weapons of bronze
In close proximity do they slash and parry
Until one meets their fate, a piercing blade cutting flesh
And the hero falls to the ground, shrieking
Cursing his fate, there he lies lifeless, moaning
Sinewy arms are outstretched, mighty limbs curved
In every pose and position bodies and corpses, cover the field
Weapons thrown about here and there, carelessly
Food for the vultures, a spectacle of death
The final repose of a once living being
Who died bravely, willingly
Forfeiting his life upon the field
Providing a stage for yet another encounter
As if the battle fought were in heaven itself
The clang of swords upon shield and helmet
Can be heard from a distance
An armored champion, confident of his manufactured protection
With huge round shield and glistening helm
Fights off the aggressive, muscled hero with flowing hair
Half naked, clothed but in a girdle, his body like that of a god
Yet he pushes forward, seeking to slay his armored adversary
Neither can prevail, neither knows who will walk away
From the dance of death upon that field
Two mighty champions duel for eternal glory
A guarantee of remembrance, perhaps
Hoping to inspire the verses of some bard
Who would compose for them, of them, a masterpiece
Of literature and song, to be recited for centuries thereafter
The well muscled hero leaps now, carefully aiming his blow
Strategically and with determination he leaps!
With one lightening strike like the sting of a giant bee
Or that of a great dragonfly
He plunges his sword deep into the vulnerable neck
Of his otherwise armored opponent, once invincible
As it were thought of him, until this very decisive moment
Blood spurts red like a fountain from the deep gash
Inflicted by the terrible sword, stinging pain consumes the victim
He knows that his end is near, that victory has eluded him
Soon he too, will be in eternal repose upon that field of battle
One of hundreds who make their last appearance
On that fateful theater stage of the gods
Sprawled there, on that once peaceful meadow
Now stained red with the blood of the fallen
Magnificent in death as he was in life
As the gods atop Olympus marvel at his beauty
The gemstone that recounts the tale of that fateful day
Lay hidden for millennia, silent and alone
It’s story and tale wrapped in deep sleep in the hollow of the Earth
Until one day it could remain silent no more
Long enough, the bards who sang this tale
Have remained unheard, their song barely a whisper
The heroes who heeded the command of the gods
On that fateful day long ago, in an age and era past
Willingly going forth to conquer or to die
Rising again to remind the world of their glorious deeds
What? Wait for a bard to recount my tale?
They too, do succumb to death, as warriors do
However with a harp in their hand rather than
Sword, spear or the battle axe
Never did the bard know the sting of the blade
As it pierces flesh or cuts through bone
Nor do they know the weight of a heavy shield upon the arm
They who clothe themselves in fine linens and robes
Armor is not of their wardrobe, no helmets do they don
Tellers of tales recite their verses and sing their songs
Their hair well groomed and curled, their faces powdered
Then stand they for applause, receiving praise from the nobles
'Tis we, the warriors who must endure all manner of hardship
And sacrifice our being to die on the field
'Tis they the bards who sing our song
And it is they who grant us immortality
As we guarantee them fame for centuries to come
With our exploits and daring deeds
Such is the way of the world and of time itself
Your glory shall never fade, oh champion of Pylos!
This is the promise of the Cosmos, the promise of the heavens
That you would forfeit your life for the pleasure of the gods
That you would live as immortals for all eternity...
And grant a humble teller of tales a means to eke out
A humble means to make a living, and feed himself yet another day
Artist's rendition of the Pylos agate, named for the place where this gemstone was found in a grave site in 2015. The piece depicts possibly an incident from the Trojan War. It was created by Minoans in the Mycenaean era approximately 1450 BC, predating the later Hellenic classical era circa 500 BC, known for perfection in sculpture and fine carving technique. The style and fine craftsmanship of this work sheds new light on ancient Greek art. Encrusted in earth and rust, archeologists patiently cleaned and chipped away until they were able to view the detailed work within. The piece is quite small, but 1.3 inches in length. The minute detail and fine craftsmanship is truly amazing.
