There are rhymes in this world.
Disjoin them, and it trembles.
You were a blind man, Homer.
Night sat on your eyebrows.
Night, your singer's cloak.
Night, on your eyes, like a shutter.
Would a seeing man not have joined
Achilles to Helen?
Helen. Achilles.
Name a better sounding match.
For, in defiance of chaos
The world thrives on accords.
Yet, disjointed (with accord
At its core) it seeks revenge
In wifely unfaithfulness
And the burning Troy.
You were a blind man, bard.
You littered fortune like trash.
Those rhymes have been forged in that
World, and as you draw them apart
This world crumbles. Who needs
An accord! Grow old, Helen!
Achaia's best warrior!
Sparta's sweet beauty!
Nothing but the murmur
Of myrtle, a lyre's dream:
"Helen. Achilles.
The couple kept apart."