If you make their siege redundant by surrender
they will only make your children slaves,
but if you shut your foolish gates and bluster,
afterward they drag reluctant captives away
by bronze hooks in their swollen tongues
and your painful answer will not matter then.

Assyrian art boasts at depiction of hard weaponry
whose efficiency at death was its greatest virtue.
Who refined war to engines of perfection like theirs?
What artists chiseled such hard likeness of battle
where decapitation looked like fit reward
for faithful taxes with a kiss of sword?

Booty can sustain this empire only so long
before you must replenish it by conquest,
a grim addiction to economy of seizure,
why wait for your quartermaster’s ledger
to tell you it is time to sharpen pikes
or string your sinewed bows with human gut?

Look at Lachish with its looming towers,
this juggernaut of judgment ushers every citizen
to an identical apocalypse: even futile fiery torches
defenders hurl are met by calmly ladled water
spooned from armored wagons, whose tracked wheels
roll on to crush both walls and all your courage easily.