In the end,
of all human strife,
the spiteful Gods
leave but tales
and forgotten graves.
Iphigeneia's blood
on the cruel altar
raises the wind,
blows the sleek ships
to the Asian shore,
where mighty Ilion
rises from the bay
to its hilltop fort.
In the end,
of all human strife,
the spiteful Gods
leave but tales
and forgotten graves.
As in the beginning,
so in the end,
the blood of an innocent
maiden shed,
now on the mound
hiding the bones
of Achilles, his
hungry shade,
Polyxena slaughtered.
In the end,
of all human strife,
the spiteful Gods
leave but tales
and forgotten graves.
The wind rises
as the blood dries,
the sleek ships
set out to the sea,
to their doom
on the the vast
Aegean; in mighty
waves drowned,
on the rocks of
the towering shores
crushed, and in
citadels stabbed
with shining daggers,
the butchers of Ilion,
burnt on its hill.
In the end,
of all human strife,
the spiteful Gods
leave but tales
and forgotten graves.
02.02.2021
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