The Sun Rose On The Flawless Brimming

Sing, O Muse, Of The Rage Of Achilles, Son Of Peleus, That Brought Countless Ills Upon The Achaeans.

And His Good Wife Will Tear Her Cheeks In Grief, His Sons Are Orphans And He, Soaking The Soil Red With His Own Blood, He Rots Away Himself-more Birds Than Women Flocking Round His Body!

And Not A Man Appears To Tell Their Fate.

A Little Child Born Yesterday A Thing On Mother's Milk And Kisses Fed.

Everything Flows And Nothing Stays.