Priam by Kaavya Rajan

I kneel at your threshold,

warrior who burns like a star.

My bones are heavy with the dust of Troy,

and my heart,

a battered drum,

beats a song of surrender.

I have come with hands empty,

save for the weight of my grief.

Hector, my son—

he lies where rage left him,

his body broken,

his name scattered like ash

on the wind of your wrath.

Do you see me now, Achilles?

Not as a king,

not as the father of your enemy,

but as a man

who knows the rawness of loss.

Did you not once weep for Patroclus?

Do you not still hear his laughter

echoing in your silences?

I am here to barter with no weapon,

no coin of pride,

only the memory of love.

For in the end,

we are not gods,

but men—

flesh and blood,

aching and finite.

Return him to me,

this son who was mine

and yours in death.

Let me bury what remains

of his story in the earth,

so that even in ruin,

we are reminded:

to grieve is to be human.

And for a moment, Achilles,

in your silence,

you seem almost mortal too.