Unlovely is my face. Coarse as my hands, and, like them, a lasting tool built for use and not for beauty. Among the ladies of the camp I inspired no followers, nor softened the hearts of any white-fingered captives. No beautiful boys shared my bed, but what was that to me? Let dreams trouble the poet and the hero; I am a craftsman, first and foremost, and then a soldier. No clever words have I in council among the mighty. No songs stir my lips at sight of foreign lands. But between my rough-palmed hands wood breathes lively, shines in the moonlight. The hands that tremble away from my soldier’s tunic linger upon my shapely forms.

It is my horse that holds us all upon the pocky plain, my horse that shakes its head at the morning light. My gift to steed-lover sea god, Old Man, Earthshaker, though the speakers and the dreamers name it ruse. Deep father, accept my gift: my horse, my handiwork, my life, my courage. To you I dedicate them this day, that I might be laid to rest upon the sweet grasses of home, far from this cursed town. O, Mighty Poseidon!