Three Hundred Spartans In twilight’s ash three hundred stars await As blue-black thunder roars with battle drums, Three hundred voices murmuring of fate, As odds and armour stack in fearful sums. Oh watch, my brother, watch your patient steel, And wield it knowing valor keeps you strong, And feel, my soldier, feel what all gods feel. When future matters not, our fear is gone. “Alala!” cry our men when arrows plunge, When Hades reigns, when blood encrusts our hands. “Alala,” sing we still, and onwards lunge, From blood-slick fields to jasmine-scented lands. So pity not our long-dead bodies slain, For what is life compared to timeless fame? Mother Teresa On lapis wings she swore the rebel’s pact To paint with gold this tarnished clockwork land. Her starry eyes defied a sky too black; Her hands unravelled each infernal plan. With hope for ink, she rewrote history, Breathed life into the scripted scores of pain; This woman who could feel our misery, This saint who never doubted, all the same. If only I could smile with her same zeal, Or stand as tall as all her amber love. So easy did it seem for her to heal, and never let her kindness be enough. Yet, though she’s gone, all hell will not relent; So we must don the wings of her intent. Sancia Milton is a tenth grade student at The Bishop's School.