Your fingers are like sentinels, huddled together, preparing for a fight.
Your eyes like vultures, ravenous to feast over carcass left behind from our battles.
And your lips, they hold secrets like a tempting Trojan gift.
Helen is blamed. Achilles staggers onto the ground. There is blood on someone's hands, and tears streaking down both faces.
The sun blinds us on the spot, as we become plastered and stone-cold. One touch, and we come tumbling down. There goes history, I guess...