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Scratches the eye so violent it can be seenĪchilles stands he stretches turns on his heel Though it is noon, the helmet screams against the light His sword’s haft parked between sheaves of grey obsidian,įrom which a lucid blade stood out, leaf-shaped, adorned His shield as round and rich as moons in spring Rolls down these vital units to the bottom of oneself.Īnd its ominous radiance flooded his heart.īright pads with toggles crossed behind the knees,īodice of fitted tungsten, pliable straps
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The heart is strong, as if it never sorrowed Those who have slept with sorrow in their hearts The well-fed, glittering army stands and turns. Great lengths of water struck by changing winds īoundless sand snowfall across broad steppes at dusk.Īs a huge beast stands and turns around itself, They are like Nature like a mass of flame They rise! – the Greeks with smiling iron mouths. That war was meaningful, because they lost their friends. That they were rich, because their loot was great Is lost: and for a while they join a terrible equality,īelieving they were whole, while they were brave Whatever caught and brought and kept them here Moments like these absolve the needs dividing men. Or those with everything to lose, the kings, Waking the ones who dozed like rows of spoons
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Men under discipline of death prepare for war.Īnd kicks from those who could not catch an hour’s sleep