300 hundred swept, through the sands of time, for no rhyme or reason, but an idea, imagined in the minds of many, did not seem to be weary, when in the dawn they knew, millions of assailants in full view, and for what they were good, arcadians stood, ready to shed, their life highly sped, for there is not a tomorrow, there is not grief or sorrow, there is an idea, bled into dirt, but still held dear.