Athena

She sprang from thought, a sharpened cry,
In armour born beneath the sky.
No cradle rocked her into grace,
She came with spear and solemn face.

The owl, her herald, wise and keen,
She walks the line where thoughts convene.
In battle’s din or council’s breath,
She weaves a thread that outwits death.

For war, when guided by her hand,
Is strategy, not scorched command.
She teaches craft, she builds with care,
A city’s shield, a sculptor’s prayer.

Yet even minds of deepest reach
May fault when power eclipses teach.
Medusa knelt in sacred place—
Wronged and wept with shame on face.
Athena’s wrath, swift and unkind,
Made serpents of a tortured mind.

And Arachne, who wove her soul in thread,
Was cursed for truths the stories said.
The goddess, jealous, proud, and great,
Still stamped her mark with mortal fate.

So honour her for what she gives—
The will to fight, the strength that lives.
But never forget, for all her grace,
There’s shadow in her sculpted face.

She is the wisdom in the flame,
The justice blind, yet not the same.
And though her glory strikes the stars,
It leaves behind its share of scars.

© 2025