This past week’s events are a reminder of one of the greatest fallacies of our collective history; that war is our ultimate drama, and its commanders are worthy protagonists to be remembered. One only has to peer into the brutal dead eyes of this latest master of a juggernaut of death to recognize that “I am not prince Hamlet nor was meant to be.” was written with him in mind. He is not even Macbeth, who still had poetry in his sword.

A little poetry, a perfect melody, and the voluminous echo of laughter are what I hear from our circular past that we call civilization, not the cries of the Sabine Women. Most conquerors are mere names on a historical plaque, which when we see them on TV, with their wasted souls, seems like too much praise.

Apparently, Alexander the great was tutored by Aristotle and had the plays of Euripides memorized. In recognition of that, my poem this month is about an often ignored part of a legend’s past.