Achille | final version

In my sleep, in my watch, an ancient sea still takes
Achaean ships by surprise into a darkness of rocks.
Slow, firm, short, busy creator from no beginning,
blinded fate forgets the gold branch by which
it is encircled, the sudden echo that breaks
silence: is this my birth?
To escape I dressed in pearls,
a veil of purple concealed my face,
but the trick revealed me.
The arrow has been shot,
and Ulysses had stolen my weapons from Diomedes.
I remember Priamus’ regal garments, his speechless mouth.
I wasn’t able to reach Hector,
I won’t become a constellation, I’ll have no more
than astonishment as a fleeting shield
upon which the lame god beat
the earth, the ocean, the red-hot blood.