Titans battled here, younger siblings rising against them to decide the fate of the universe under their feet, their steps carving mountains from the earth,  pillars of sandstone where monks drag brick and stone across centuries. When I visit with my mother there are riots in the streets of Athens, protestors rioting on ancient battlefields with bombs,  stones. They are rampaging masked armies taking aim beneath the mountains, teenagers arming themselves with clubs, rushing into the crowd, cut down by gas and bullets in a hazy spray. Here, so breathlessly close to Olympus, the blood-stained rope has ripped away layers from palms and fingers, and still they climb, cut open, into a heaven of stone, and cling there, silent. Armies below cannot touch them here. Instead, gods claw apart their brothers, strong hands caked black with blood and filth. They wait cold as the stones they scale, watching the blood as it fills chasms below, gaping hungry.