Bellona, I sing, terrible Goddess,
whose voice is like thunder,
or the crash of bronze armor.
Frightening slayer of men,
who carelessly plunges through the lines,
cutting down men like wheat in the field.
Drunk on blood, she tilts her head back and laughs,
as another hero slips on the wet ground,
and is stabbed through the middle.
She has terrible mad eyes,
and gnashes her teeth.
She cuts her own breasts to see the blood run red.
This is not Ares I sing,
who presides over noble battle and the defense of walled cities,
but that strange Mother from Cappodacia,
who, once unleashed,
is not happy until the earth is black with blood,
and the air is filled with the desperate weeping of widowed brides
and orphaned children.
Bellona, for this song, I pray, stay far from me.