Collected Poems - Sri Aurobindo Ashram

400 Pondicherry, c. 1910 – 1920
Seems, as in every war the beloved must fall and the cherished,
Then the heart cries, ‘It has happened as all shall happen I mourn for.’
All that was bright it misses and only seizes on sorrow.
Dear, on the brightness look and if thou must prophesy, tell us
Rather of great Pelides slain by my spear in the onset.”
But with a voice of grief the sister answered her brother:
“Yes, he shall fall and his slayer too perish and Troy with his slayer.”
But in his spirit rejoicing Paris answered Cassandra:
“Let but this word come true; for the rest, the gods shall avert it.
Look once more, O Cassandra, and comfort the heart of thy mother,
See, O seer, my safe return with the spoils of Achilles.”
And with a voice of grief the sister answered her brother:
“Thou shalt return for thy hour while Troy yet stands in the sunshine.”
But in his spirit exultant Paris seizing the omen:
“Hearst thou, my father, my mother? She who still prophesied evil
Now perceives of our night this dawning. Yet is it grievous,
Since through a heart that we love must be pierced the heart of Achilles.
Fate, with this evil satisfied, turn in the end from Troya.
Bless me, my father, and thou, O Hecuba, mother long-patient,
Still forgive that thy children have fallen for Helen and Paris.”
Tenderly yearning his mother drew him towards her and murmured:
“All for thy hyacinth curls was forgiven even from childhood
And for thy sunlit looks, O wonder of charm, O Paris.
Paris, my son, though Troy must fall, thy mother forgives thee,
Blessing the gods who have lent thee to me for a while in their sunshine.
Theirs are fate and result, but ours is the joy of our children;
Even the griefs are dear that come from their hands while they love us.
Fight and slay Achilles, the murderer dire of thy brothers;
Venging Hector return, my son, to the clasp of thy mother.”
But in his calm august to Paris Priam the monarch:
“Victor so mightst thou come, so gladden the heart of thy mother.”
Then to the aged father of Paris Helen the Argive
Bright and immortal and sad like a star that grows near to the dawning
And on its pale companions looks who now fade from its vision:
“Me too pardon and love, my parents, even Helen,
Cause of all bane and all death; but I came from the gods for this ruin
Born as a torch for the burning of empires, cursed with this beauty.