An account of books 16-19 of the Iliad by Homer. <br /> <br /> Down on your knees, Achilles. Farther down. <br />Now forward on your hands and put your face into the dirt, <br />And scrub it to and fro. <br /> Grief has you by the hair with one <br />And with the forceps of its other hand <br />Uses your mouth to trowel the dogshit up; <br />Watches you lift your arms to Heaven; and then <br />Pounces and screws your nose into the filth. <br /> Gods have plucked drawstrings from your head, <br />And from the templates of your upper lip <br />Modelled their bows. <br /> Not now. Not since <br />Your grieving reaches out and pistol-whips <br />That envied face, until <br />Frightened to bear your black, backbreaking agony alone, <br />You sank, throat back, thrown back, your voice <br />Thrown out across the sea to reach your Source.<br /><br />Christopher Logue<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/war-music-down-on-your-knees-achilles/
