And there they ring the walls, the young, the lithe. The handsome hold the graves they won in Troy; the enemy earth rides over those who conquered.

Every medicine is vain.

People will love the war at the beginning,but those people who loved the war won't be there to cry at the end of the war...

Oh, the torment bred in the race,
the grinding scream of death
and the stroke that hits the vein,
the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,
the curse no man can bear.

But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no,
not from others but from them,
their bloody strife. We sing to you,
dark gods beneath the earth.

Now hear, you blissful powers underground --
answer the call, send help.
Bless the children, give them triumph now.

…but there they lay, sprawled across the field, craved far more by the vultures than by wives.

There's nothing certain in a man's life except this: That he must lose it.