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Akhilleus, prince and greatest of the Akhains,
be forebearing. They are badly hurt.
All who were the best fighters are now lying
among the ships with spear or arrow wounds.
Diomêdès, Tydeus’ rugged son, was shot;
Odysseus and Agamémnon, the great spearman,
have spear wounds; Eurýpylos
took an arrow shot deep in his thigh.
Surgeons with medicines are attending them
to ease their wounds.

But you are a hard case,
Akhilleus! You are your fearsome pride!
What good will come of it to anyone, later,
unless you keep disaster from the Argives?
Have you no pity?
Pêleus, master of horse, was not your father,
Thetis was not your mother! Cold grey sea
and sea-cliffs bore you, making a mind so harsh.
If in your heart you fear some oracle,
some word of Zeus, told by your gentle mother,
then send me out at least, and send me quickly,
give me a company Myrmidons,
and I may be a beacon to Danáäns!
Lend me your gear to strap over my shoulders;
Trojans then may take me for yourself
and break off battle, giving your worn-out men
a chance to breathe. Respites are brief in war
We fresh troops with one battlecry might easily
push their tired men back on the town,
away from ships and huts.”

So he petitioned,
witless as a child that what he begged for
was his own death, hard death and doom.
— from Book 16 of The Iliad, translated by Robert Fitzgerald

Photo, “Burn Darien Burn,″ Darien, Georgia, 2010; by Amber Tides; courtesy of the artist. Bay Ridge is next!

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