The crash of the wave shakes the very earth
and the sea rises to embrace the man as he falls
washing clean the crimes and the blood of friend and foe
Upon your great ships you prepare to embark

A sacrifice each will pay, a toll for crossing into my domain
for you often take from me what is mine, and it is just
that you repay me with offerings of that which you have borrowed.
A toll upon the road which embraces the world

Glory for the greatest, and the greatest act in my name.
What use a return to home if not a return with honor?
For the poor soldier who returns without tribute and scars
The city screams as to his cowardice, and rightly so.

A hero fights his all, and retreats when the blood has left
It is no shame to seek recovery for a wound, provided that wound
was fairly gained by the hand of an enemy.
It is shame to quail and flatter and seek to hide away.

Beyond the dark rivers, upon my shadowed shore,
do the men of Troy set their feet and whisper hushed fears
that they are soon to pass into my realm,
And upon stepping upon my threshold, they do meet my hound.

It is not enough to be a glorious and grand host
For when my guests have eaten their fill and sung their songs
Their minds often turn to diversion and intrigue
Each competing for my favor and my attentions

And so it was with a simple game, a jest in fact
The idea that any perfection could be compared to another
and that the immutable primal being of the gods could be judged
by the standards of a looking glass is a comedy for all time.

A full belly and empty amphora is not an ill wish for a man
a state of bliss unto itself, with the mind free
of the chains of order, the shackles of manners
and the leash of law ever pulling on the larynx

For when the flames flicker dim, who wishes to feel
the sting of cold's dagger, or the the wind's salted scourge?
Drink! For the amphorae are full and it will only be the sun
which provides the toil and the song to find more

And when the men have finished their beating of chests
when they have sated their desire for wrangling
and have divided up the spoils
They leave only the blame upon the table.

That blame is to be assigned to me.
I, the whole source of the matter, they claim.
They say that the war would not have occurred
save for the vanity of goddesses