Though watch-fires burn, And sentinels grasp their spears, no voices call your princely presence dims, Your body seeks its place upon the waiting pyre. Whose were the feet that kicked against the wheel, Whose knuckle forced the clay? Who brushed this seal of silence on your limbs? Their names inscribed, they were themselves in turn Caught by the sweep of time that carries all Before its cresting wave. Adrift within this dream, You would remain, but Hermes' woven wand Calls forth, from fathoms deep within the stream Of myth, Sarpedon, that which draws you on, yet grants this stay of breath, This scene suspended, far above the noise of battle. Having no quarrel with the Achaeans, he fought bravely alongside his Trojan allies, and was slain by Patroclus, who was clad in the armor of Achilles.' Unseen but felt, the ceaseless wind that blows Aslant the weeping of your wounds, yet shows the wings of Sleep and Death Immaculate. The obverse depicts the death of Sarpedon, king of Lycia.
'A red-figure vase, circa 515 BCE, signed by the potter and the painter who created it.
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