The Sea, The Sea.

Cyrus dead, and now bereft of purpose and reward, The Grecian army faced their only choice, retreat, Across the seedless deserts, the high and icy passes Of Persia and of Armenia. Northwards they trudged Through unforgiving clouds of biting sand And blinding snow, Xenophon and the ten thousand, A rudderless fleet, blindly swept about both here and there, Attacked at all quarters by surrounding enemies, Suffering the agonies of thirst and hunger That death alone would salve. Yet in despair They went forever northwards under that hostile sun, The freezing air of evening as guards on vigil Shivered with hypothermic fear, thinking of their homelands And wondering why they'd come so far from home To fight another's cause which now his death had cancelled. At the break of day, a team of scouts were ordered out on survey. Reluctantly they climbed a steady slope towards another ridge, So many had they scaled the day before, each one a wave Leading to another to mock their vain endeavours. Not one of them dreamt that hope would come their way As they took their final steps towards this ridge. But then a moment later despair dissolved as they cried out And clutching one another, shouted to their colleagues down below: Thalatta! Thalatta! The sea! The sea! ' Which in deepest blue appeared not five miles distant Washing the toes of Trebizond, A port of safety they thought they'd never see!