They came thundering down the Attic plain, 
Wont on destruction, gold and greed, 
Sycthian hordes,
Poor Athinai, she would never be the same.

What have we done to anger the gods,
Why do these Norsemen plague us thus,
Too late for the votive offering, 
Posiedon looks on, with smug on his face,
While Athena has abandoned her place,
Better the salt spring than olive tree;
Oh fooled Athenians, why did thee not choose me.

Hadrian’s pride the seat of learning,
Treated to rough hands and torch,
Poets fight with words put to the sword,
Scrolls to the wind, Socrates and Plato are now but ash,
Civilization turned to trash.

Hephaestus stands firm in his Temple,
Meets fire with fire, the Norsemen incensed.

Through Agora and Forum the tide crashes and rages,
Valerian’s impotence all washed away, 
The cradle is falling but no one can save.

What civilization still stands; they struggle up the hill,
Oh beloved Mother, give us Sanctuary from the Furies below,
But her Shield has gone.

From top of the hill they see the Black Smith’s flame of hope,
Dexippus’ mettle is re-forged, 
The tide is checked; pushed back to their ships,
Those Norsemen receive their smote.