The Glory of Achilles

The oath of the gods, this day was fulfilled In the heat of the battle, Hector was killed See him Patroclus, down in the dust Rejoice in his death my symbol of trust A dozen highborn youths, have been killed Cutting their throats their blood was all spilled Their bodies set at the fool of your fire With oxen, sheep and two of your hounds Your funeral pyre high off the ground Hector's body dragged three times around I will carry the torch to your funeral pyre I will ask of the wind to send high your fire Hector's blood will not be washed from my body until your body is burned A prophecy spoken a promice fulfilled More blood will be spilled, more will be killed.