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The clouds obscure the sun in Babylon.
The young king lies grief-stricken on his bed.
His loyal friend, great general, is gone;
Hepheistion the warrior is dead.
The man who filled the Persian hordes with dread;
Cut down by fever – not by spear or bow.
No scimitar had slashed – no wound had bled.
No weapon, by man wielded, brought him low.
No armour bright, or shield, could foil a foe
That steals men’s lives unseen – a cunning thief.
But all these tears? Grave doubts take root and grow.
Why so unseemly is this show of grief?
You ask why? He’s Achilleus reborn!
And thus Patroklas he must duly mourn.