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Ares barters the bodies of men for gold; he holds his balance in the contest of the spear; and  back from Ilium to their loved ones he sends a heavy dust passed through his burning, a dust cried over with plenteous tears, in place of men sending well made urns with ashes.  So they lament, praising now this one: “How skilled in battle!” now that one: “Fallen nobly in the carnage,”—“for another's wife—” some mutter in secret, and  grief charged with resentment spreads stealthily against the sons of Atreus, champions in the strife. But there far from home, around the city's walls, those in their beauty's bloom have graves in Ilium—  the enemy's soil has covered its conquerors.
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