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literature

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It was love that killed Patroclus,

not a spesr, not the war, not Achilles pride,

it was sweet, sweet love.

" [He] felt his sibling`s arms around him (a fight, was it, or a brother's embrace? Either way, it suffocated)."

[...]

Dear Christ! the very prison walls

Suddenly seemed to reel,

And the sky above my head became

Like a casque of scorching steel;

And, though I was a soul in pain,

My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought

Quickened his step, and why

He looked upon the garish day

With such a wistful eye;

The man had killed the thing he loved

And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,

And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.

[...]

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