Авторский текст из финального пакета. Сверка с аудио — после загрузки записи.
He watched his son beneath the spears.
The cloud withheld its rain.
One thought could draw him from the field
and give him breath again.
But other gods had sons below
whom each would choose to spare.
He let the mortal measure stand.
Red rain fell through the air.
The balance held above the field.
The mortal hour came due.
The sky could grieve above its son.
It could not choose anew.
The sky could not keep him.
No thunder broke the thread.
The war still called for victory.
We lifted up the dead.
My brother took the other side.
The sky released its claim.
We bore him home through open air
to those who knew his name.
Apollo drew him from the spears,
beyond the noise of men.
He washed him in the running stream
and clothed his form again.
Then ambrosia touched his wounds.
No breath returned or stirred.
He gave the silent man to us
without another word.
My brother waited at his side.
The field still roared below.
He took his place across from me.
We knew which way to go.
The sky could not keep him.
No thunder broke the thread.
The war still called for victory.
We lifted up the dead.
My brother took the other side.
The sky released its claim.
We bore him home through open air
to those who knew his name.
His road can open into dawn.
Mine does not turn again.
Yet both our hands were equal there
around one mortal man.
No word was needed in the air.
No order passed between.
The son of Zeus lay still with us;
no bronze was left to gleam.
Wide Lycia lay under us,
his own remembered land.
His brothers spoke Sarpedon's name
and took him from our hands.
The sky could not keep him.
No thunder broke the thread.
The war still called for victory.
We lifted up the dead.
The war had called him glory.
His people called him son.
We laid him in his kinsmen's hands.
Our carrying was done.
The armour stayed with war.
The man went home.