Who hung these shields here still all shiny,
these spears with no blood on, these helmets undented,
dedicating to Ares arms as ornaments only?
Will no one clear this rubbish from my house?
The banqueting halls of unbellicose softies
are fitter for those than the walls of the War God.
I want hacked trophies, the blood of the dying,
or else I'm not Ares, the plague of mankind.