They would’ve called you deathless,
had destiny’s thread been ours to spin.
I would’ve borne the arrow and the spear,
your fate and mine, if I knew what suffering
the stars had in store.
Rage! Rage! That’s all the world will know—
your name painted in your victims’ blood,
russet letters folded over black sanded dunes.
They’ll never know those same bleeding arms
could cradle lovers more gently
than the bodies of the dead.
Rage! Rage! Throttle the gods, their sons and daughters,
fill my void with flesh and gore. The waves of foes slaughtered
will be your mark, a plinth in the sand for men to bow to.
So rage, they say: rage for your honor, rage for your love,
rage for your name and its unending call.
It’s too late for your soul, already dead,
her vapors coiling in Hades’ dark beside me.