Achilles, come down, the city’s still burning,
your name’s on the wall in spray-paint and blood.
These nights taste of gunpowder, cheap wine, and yearning—
don’t add your pulse to the flood.
Throw the bottle, not yourself, off the ledge of the hour;
every echo of war needs a living reply.
Come down, let the dawn lay its cool hand of power
on the heat of the gods in your thigh.
We’re all just kids in the smoke, shouting “glory” too loud—
stay, and we’ll mispronounce it together, proud.