translated by J.M. Wilcox

Now all the other gods and men,—hippokorustic equiornate—horse-powered car-fighters,
were dream-endrowned, pounding their ears, all through the night—pannukhious omninoctial—
   but sweet sleep did not hold or snare, seduce, possess Skyboss Zeus,
for he, to be sure, was spinning a plan in the looping lobes and flexible folds of his brain
   evolving how to honor heated Akhilleus,
decent-esteem Man of Pain, and immobilize many a man by the ships of the scarred Akhaioi.
And this fake scheme—bright-determined—seemed supreme, appeared the best way to go to his
   circumturbed, out-of-tune, storm-slamming mind:
to send Agamemnon, son of Atreus, a poisonous dream.
So he spoke and addressed the translucent dream with syllable-bubbles, words winged:
“Beat it! Scram! You dream of death! Take off, go to the sea-skimming ships of the Akhaioi.
When you reach the hut of Agamemnon, son of Atreus,
tell him the tab, bang as I bid, above all oblige, correctly command, the whole shebang precisely
   proclaim,—injunctive epitellic.
Charge him to harness, enweapon and furnish with plenty of panoply, batches of ammo, the hair-
   streaming, tattered, entrenched Akhaioi
in a shot and a rush, kinetic flash—pansudious omnipellent; for now he may take the—
   lativious medianed euruaguiic—steamrollered manholed—wide-wayed city—macadamized
   town—
of the Trojans, because the immortals who dwell in, inhabit Olympian homes,
deathless and looming, are no longer severed and cleft in conflict, dashed in division, split in
   decision,—stridulous, jangly, polarized, torn asunder, sharp-opponed—for Sky Queen Here,
   supplicating,
bent and inclined—subtle-cambered—all of their plastic minds, so bundles of troubles—bands of
   binds—are bolted to Trojans.”

   Thus he spoke, and the dream took off when it heard the command,
and quickly it came to the high-speed ships of the Akhaioi,
and hanging, gliding, invisible-streaming, hovered and whooshed, about to exhort, incite
   Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and it found him
poppied, velvet-cushioned, hushed in his hut, and over him gushed celestial sleep.
And it stood erect above his head, resembling son of Neleus People-Saver,
Nestor Bringback, a brilliant weathered paramount warrior, soldier acclaimed, whom
   Agamemnon Adamant esteemed-supreme, above all elders, knowers of things.
Shamming his shape, the floating phantom, splendid specter, divine dream, spoke to him:
“You are asleep, son of Atreus,—daiphronical hippodamic candicordial equidomic—battle-
   minded horse-tamer—whipbright wound-up volatile fuse-blown firehead;
it is not right for a martial mouthpiece, conflict-counselor, strategy-minister, tactics-monitor,—
   boulephore consiliger—man with a plan, to sleep through the cycle of night,
to whom companies, units, hosts have been charged,—obversive epitrepic—to whom, to boot, so
   many objects of constant care and current concern are crushing—strong-obtunding, stern-
   consuming.
Now listen-quick, get my drift, for to you I am sent as a special agent, messenger from Skyhead
   Zeus,
who though remote, far away, cares for, prizes and pities you deeply.
He commands you to brace, tool up, dispone, metal out, harness the hair-streaming, scattered
   and stout, enscarred Akhaioi
in a dart and a rush; for now you may take the—manholed streetsweepered—wide-paved city,
   gold-tiered town
of the Trojans, because the immortals who dwell in high-up pads, Olympian homes,—sublime
   and spangled palaces,
deathless beings, limpid-looming, purple-draped perpetual imperials, are no longer polarized,
   split in decision, ripped in discord, dashed in grating disagreement, for Sky Queen Here,
   supplicating,
bent, inclined all their flexible minds, so a series of sorrows, considerable troubles are snapped
   on Trojans
by Cobalt Zeus. Now keep this eye-shut shade in your mind,—don”t let it fade or retrograde—
   and don’t let a fugue, oblivion dim, a turbid lapse,
latch on to you, when honey-hearted sleep, slow-releasing,—tumble-twirl trickle-sparkle!—lets
   you go.”

   The dream thus spoke, and dropped out of sight, slipped away, disappeared and left him there
revolving things in his rushing mind—cranked-up spinbright merry-go-round—that were not to
   be tapped or deployed, sudden-adopted, put into action—plan of attack, subsequent-sacked,
   rapid-expelled, torpedoed.
He truly thought, seemingly deemed he could tackle, take down, tear up, betrench, clutch and
   assume, extirpate, nab the city of Priam the king that day,—
what a blockhead!—nincompoop, jack-in-the-box, wordless wonder—since he knew not what
   devices, twisty tactics, stratagems Zigzag Zeus was plotting,
for up to this point he still had plans to inflict pain, apply pressure, place hard aches and woes
   upon, make bemoan, hammer home
both Trojans besieged and ablaze Danaoi rebuffed in the course of battles robust—mudbrutal
   moodbrittle bone-mangled blood-metal.
Then he woke up, broke out of sleep, with the voice of a god agush in his ears.
So he sat upright and slipped on a thick-threaded, well-formed frock, soft refulgent tunic,—
   donned a fluted cotton khiton—
lovely, scented, slight-perfumed, seemingly magically recently woven, hot off the loom and he—
   periballic circumjective—threw on a cloak in a swirl,
and beneath his sleek and oil-rubbed feet bound splendid sassy sandals,
and—amphiballic ambidative—soon around his shoulders slipped on, tossed his breast-slung
   belted sword—dangle-blade, bilbo-beam—with—arguroelic claviargent—silver-headed rivets
   gleaming,—pound-flash bang-spray swing-smash spark-ding—
and he grabbed the proppy power-baton, ever-charged, built to last,—fadeless, indestructible,
   etiolation-proof—generation-relayed,
and braced with this he walked along the bright-shored ships of the—khalkokhitonic aeritunical
   —copper-coated Akhaioi.

   Then Eos, goddess of flaming dawn, finger-painted, connected the dots of the pansive sky,—
   color-cracked charm-toned—broke a hole through the bowl of blue and shot to entowering
   beamtall star-steep Olumpos,
unleashing waves, inglowing particles, disengaging much-rich light—iridescent dazzle-dynes—
   to star-entangled Blue-Limned Zeus and the other majestic celestials,
but Agamemnon Stabilizer ordered the glass-voiced harbingers, precious sacred clear-toned
   heralds—liguphthongous candisonic wind-wired whistle-birds—
to call, invoke the hair-streaming breezebright Akhaioi to the central place of normal formation.
They thus invoked, and the men assembled, gathered by the sea quite quickly.

   And first Agamemnon made the council, board of chieftains, senior commanders, soul-
   supreme,—magnanimous megathumic—sit down
by the ship of Nestor Come-Back, Pulos-born, king of Gatetown.
After he had called the host of captains batched together, huddle-wise, he welded a solid, fisted
   plan:
“Listen, my friends: a divine dream, lined in twilight, came to me, in my sleep,
through the transmundane, interminal night, and it closely resembled sky-bright Nestor,—
quite a clone, mirror-tight, space-pressed—a dead ringer, replica—exact in form and size and
   build.
And it stood still above my head,—hovered-sublime—a tangible vacuum—and spoke to me thus
   with words august:
“You are asleep, son of Atreus, war-absorbed horse-tamer—skull-combusted, killing-entranced;
it is not right for a man with a plan to wink out and sleep through the cycle of night,
to whom entrenched brigades have been charged, to whom, to boot, so many matters, objects of
   care, high concern, are crushing.
Now listen-quick, get my drift, for I am sent as a midnight messenger, specter agent, straight to
   you from Skyhead Zeus,
who though remote, far away, cares for, prizes and pities you deeply.
He commands you to groom, gird and gear up, fortify, metal out, prep and brace the hair-
   bestreaming Akhaioi
in a rush and a dash and a dart, for now you may take the—manholed steamrollered—wide-
   paved city
of the Trojans, for the immortals who dwell in Olympian homes,
deathless, brilliant, looming, aloft, are no longer dubious, iffy,—stuck, unpointed, oscillating,—
   locked in seesaw mode—Sky Queen Here, supplicating,
bent, inclined all their flexible minds, so pains are nailed, afflictions fastened, sorrows soldered,
   tribulations mucilaged, adversities bolted, bound to Trojans
by imperial High-Top-Bleachered Zeus. Now keep this eye-shut shade zoetic, ashine in your
   mind—don”t let it languish, retrograde, atrophy, decline or fade—psychodelinquent etiolation.”
   So the dream spoke
and vanished on wings, whooshed away,—abvolatile apopetomous—gone!—and sweet fluffy
   sleep, delight of night, released me.
Come now, snap it, let’s go see if maybe we can metal out, weapon up, dramatic-don, pizazz the
   sons of the Akhaioi.
But first I shall force a dry run, give them a verbal test,—behavior-check, action trial, fleeting
   chance, surprise request—
and shall urge them to flee in their bright-ramming ships with spaced reams, tiers and tracks of—
   polukleidic multiclusive—beam-locking thick-thwarted rowing-benches,
but you go where they go and back-keep, close-check, choke, obstruct—restrict inhibit
   retroclaude—sandbag, block them, barricade, deter with words when they break up, cut loose,
   column out, coming from every direction.”

   Speaking thus he then sat down, and among them arose
majestic Nestor, who reigned as king of sandy Pulos Gatetown.
Abrim with a mind imbued with truth he brief-expounded and spoke to them:
“O precious friends, leaders and lords of the Argeioi Radiators,
if any other man of the candent Akhaioi through the chain of command—supernal-relayed—
   declared this dream,
we might deem it a blatant lie, and swerve and spurn, contemn, turn away, like dream-rejectors
   —gainsay-gang thwart-patrol.
But the man who saw it boasts to be boss, the best by far of the Akhaioi.
Come now, snap it, let”s go see if maybe we can metal out, weapon up, dynamic-don, pizazz the
   sons of the Akhaioi.”