In Ilion I went my way.
My face was cold from bitter wind;
the air was tanged with blood of men,
the rust of life, the flame of myth,
in which were blazing handsome youths,
so strong, so dead, though yet so young.
The fire was painting their bodies red
with liquid fury; its cousin devoured both hall and road.
A village with well-built wall
where god-descended women wept,
its mud-hut palaces and fanes
had known the world's most haunting face;
yes, in this proud but little town
had lived the matchless for a time,
but greater yet was the prince born first
who by his splendid eye held fast
a land besieged; what merit or worth
has ever been like him in all the world?
The night never seems to end its rule;
their shades will never again know brilliant ray;
they look up at us (their eyes are glazed),
up at us who still on earthen roads go.
In Ilion I went my way,
and Ilion was the world.