Grasshoppers and lizards bask
on weathered stone; the heat
of Sparta shimmers on white
villages of Laconia, glances off
the eagle's rock, Taiyetos.
Petrified, I wait on Mystra's
parapet, my vision strained,
as if on hazy plains I could
discern a chariot approaching.
Yet I know your journey started
centuries ago, from Pericles'
own city, as you said it would.