Trireme

In Athens' ruin, the shipwright toiled,
His hammer striking the heart of the soil.

Lysander’s shadow hung, dark and near,
A sword’s cold edge in the grasp of fear.

The city wept in the wind’s cruel song,
Where echoes of war and ruin belong.

With each stroke, the old wood seemed to groan,
A dying city’s lament, alone.

But Hermes came with swift wings, a breeze,
Whispering words that danced in the trees.

"Callias, rise, the war may not last,
But the soul is free when the storm has passed."