The clang of armour rings through the clamour
of our men screaming thy name.
Thy name that I bear, blazing bright
as these brazen greaves.
A-CHIL-LES.
It is not I that they know.
It is not my feet that are thus as swift as thine;
though they would believe it.
It is not my rough hands that are never wrong;
but that have rather slain Sarpedon, now.
It is not thy knees that quake at Hector's call; 'tis mine own.
A-CHIL-LES.
It is not thy eyes that water in fear,
it is not thy hands that grasp thy spear, 'tis mine own.
Never wrong. Never wrong. Never wrong.
It is not thy gold-spun curls that spill forth,
as thy helmet falls.
It is not thy blood that stains Hector's spear;
it is not thy chest that splinters, 'tis mine own.
The clang of spear piercing armour rings through the clamour
of our men screaming my name.
My name that I bear, blazing bright
as thy brazen greaves.
PA-TRO-CLUS.