Ajax

Then he who had so often met and matched

great Hector, and had stood his ground against

both sword and fire and Jove’s own power—Ajax,

the undefeated one, contends with that

alone which can defeat him: his own wrath.

His sword unsheathed, he cries: “At least this blade

is mine! Or will Ulysses now lay claim

to this, too? I must use it to undo

myself: so often drenched with Trojan gore,

this shaft must shed the blood of its own lord.

Let it be shown that only one alone,

Ajax, can conquer Ajax!” Then he drove

the fatal blade into his flesh (the first

and only wound that ever pierced his chest):

he struck the softest spot, to penetrate

most deeply. None could tug that weapon free.

Only his blood—at last—flushed out the sword:

the blood that soaked the verdant soil from which

a purple flower sprang, the very same

that had—long since—sprung up when Hyacinth

was wounded. On the petals one can read

these letters, “AI-AI,” asking us to think

of Ajax’ name and Hyacinth’s lament.