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Achilles’ anger was unquenched, and so,
Three times each day he dragged him through the dirt.
Yet he remained untarnished head to toe –
No bloodied flesh, no broken bones, no hurt
Showed on unblemished skin. Still and inert,
As if asleep, and no decay was seen.
It seemed by unseen armour he was girt,
For Cypris and Apollo kept him clean.
His wounds they’d closed, since, bloody and obscene,
His body had been taken from the field.
He’d fallen to the bronze so bright and keen,
Yet now the cuts that killed him were all healed.
Achilles longed to tear him limb from limb,
Whilst grieving Priam dreamed of burning him.

{Pic – The Triumph of Achilles by Franz von Matsch. {from Wikipedia}}