Sparti’s Lost Sons

 
At Monodendri, what despair,

A clamour rose, hooves filled the air.

The mountain darkened, black as coal,
The wind foretold of death's grim toll.

 

One hundred eighteen sons from Sparti’s land,
And nearby villages, slain by cruel hand.

Embraced as one, a sombre throng,
To face their fate ere day was long.

"Bid life farewell," the killer cried,
And issued orders to decide.

Yet in that final, fleeting breath,
A letter came to halt his death:

“Spare Karvounis, the healer known,
Who served us all, both high and low.

From Sparti’s fields to Taygetos’ crest,
He soothed the sick, he gave them rest.”

Released from line, the doctor stood,
His gaze returned, his heart withstood.

He saw his friends, their silent plea,
And faced his choice with dignity.

“Go, doctor, leave!” the captives said,
“Live on for us when we are dead.

Escape the shadow, flee the snare,
While we descend to death's despair.”

“Friends, I cannot,” came his reply,
“To part from you, my soul would die.

I’ve walked this path, this final fight,
How could I stand and claim the light?

While you are lost, I cannot flee,
In life, in death, we stand as we.