Apollo carries Sarpedon out from beneath the spears. He washes away the dark blood, touches the skin with ambrosia, dresses the body for the journey and entrusts it to two swift bearers: the twins Sleep and Death.

Hypnos and Thanatos stand together. The dead man’s face is clear of pain. He has the same outward stillness that Sleep gives the world every night. This time, however, the resemblance becomes a boundary.

Hypnos places a hand against the heart. He waits for a second rhythm. There is none.

The brothers lift Sarpedon above the field. Below, the bronze grows smaller, people go on shouting out of the dust, and the dead man seems to notice nothing. Thanatos carries half his silent weight. Hypnos carries all the ‘whys’.

The road to waking lives inside Sleep. He knows every turn, having returned along it countless times. But for Sarpedon, that road is no longer there.

The hills of Lycia turn gold. His family comes to the body. They call him king and son, touch his face and hair. A hundred voices speak the name, yet this is still Hypnos’ single vocal, with no choir or sentimental pressure from outside.

Dawn touches Sarpedon’s face. He does not wake.

After the final line, the returning note of the pendulum does not arrive. The work ends in the precise absence of an expected movement rather than in weeping.

Author’s lyrics from the final package. Audio comparison follows upload.

Apollo bore you from the spears. He washed the blood away. He laid ambrosia on your skin and dressed you for the way.

Then Death and I stood side by side. Your face was washed of pain. You wore the shape I give the world, but sleep was not its name.

I laid my hand against your heart. No second rhythm came. My brother watched my searching hand. He did not ask your name.

I carried you from war to home. Red rain still filled the air. I listened for your borrowed breath. There was no breathing there.

The road to waking lived in me. I knew each turn to take. I reached for you through all of sleep. The one I could not wake.

We lifted you above the field. The bronze grew small below. The men still shouted from the dust. You did not seem to know.

Death carried half your silent weight. I carried all the why. The rain withdrew behind the hills. The earth went moving by.

His hands were steady under you. Mine searched for what was gone. We shared your darkness equally. But only I knew dawn.

I carried you from war to home. Red rain still filled the air. I listened for your borrowed breath. There was no breathing there.

The road to waking lived in me. I knew each turn to take. I reached for you through all of sleep. The one I could not wake.

The hills of Lycia turned gold. The olive leaves grew bright. We laid you where your people came and found you in the light.

They called you king. They called you son. They touched your face and hair. A hundred voices found your name. You did not answer there.

I carried you from war to home. No red rain filled the air. I listened for your borrowed breath. There was no breathing there.

The road to waking lived in me. No road remained to take. We laid you where your name began. The one I could not wake.

Dawn touched your face. You did not wake.

In plain words

Hypnos and Thanatos carry the dead Sarpedon home. Sleep can suspend consciousness and return it, but death no longer opens a way to waking. An immense power meets its limit.

Countermyths · NOX

The One I Could Not Wake

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