The King’s Plea

Through the silent Grecian camp he walked with trembling, hidden light,
A father’s grief upon his back, a shadow swallowed by the night.
Each step a prayer of broken hope, each breath a wound that would not heal,
Until he reached Achilles’ tent—a place of sorrow, rage, and steel.

The warrior sat with haunted eyes, his hands still stained from days of war,
When from the dark an old man came and bowed before his blood-stained floor.
No threat he bore, no sword he raised, just grief no mortal could refuse,
A king who knelt for his dead son, with nothing left but what he’d lose.

“Remember your own father’s face,” the trembling monarch softly pled,
“For I have lost the hope he holds—my only son lies cold and dead.”
And in those words Achilles felt his wrath and bitterness depart,
As ancient sorrow bridged the space between a father and his heart.

They wept like men undone by time, like foes unbound by fate’s design,
The tent became a sacred place where grief and honor intertwined.
Achilles rose with softened hands, his fury quiet as the dawn,
And called his servants forth to bring the body sorrowed for so long.

“Remember your own father’s face,” the trembling monarch softly pled,
“For I have lost the hope he holds—my only son lies cold and dead.”
And in those words Achilles felt his wrath and bitterness depart,
As ancient sorrow bridged the space between a father and his heart.

“Remember your own father’s face,” the trembling monarch softly pled,
“For I have lost the hope he holds—my only son lies cold and dead.”
And in those words Achilles felt his wrath and bitterness depart,
As ancient sorrow bridged the space between a father and his heart.