So it was nothing, nothing at all,
the loss, the gain; it was nothing,
the victory, the shouting
and Hector slain; it was nothing
the days of waiting were over;
perhaps his death was bitter,
I do not know; I am awake,
I see things clearly; it is dawn,
the light has changed only a little,
the day will come;
did he speak to me?
he seemed to say, it was nothing,
the arid plain, only the wind,
tearing the canvas loose,
and the tent-pole swaying,
and I lying on my pallet, awake
and hearing the flap of the sail
the creak of the mast in the mast-hold,
and caring nothing for heat,
nothing for cold,
numb with a memory,
a sort of ecstasy of desolation,
a desire to return to the old
thunder and roar of the sea...
waiting to join Hector,
but I can not be slain,
I am immortal, invincible,
son of a Greek king;
did she taunt him then,
the little image,
fearless to plough the sea,
did she laugh to see her son,
entrapped in the armoury
of iron and ruin?
did she come,
his eidolon?
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