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Aurora, the beautiful goddess of dawn
Mourned the death of her son now gone.
Memnon, by Achilles's spear, was killed.
His mother’s tears, by the fire, now spilled.
Aurora prayed to Jove in the heavens on high,
That she, the least of goddesses, would get a reply.
She prayed not for gifts, altars, or holy days,
She bragged not of honors or works that amaze.
She wished only that her son would have honor,
That Jove above would have sympathy upon her.
Jove on his throne heard the goddess's cry,
And to Aurora, he nodded his assent in reply.
Black smoke rolled off Memnon’s funeral pyre,
Black ashes clustered coming off of the fire.
The ashes took shape in a single mass,
And it all flew up high above the grass.
From the fire, it drew heat and breath of life,
And birds were seen, beaks sharp as a knife.
The birds, real birds, whirled beyond counting,
They circled around the pyre, on the wind, mounting.
Three times, they circled, their cries heard all around.
On the fourth time, the flock split, each to a side, bound.
Two fierce legions, so divided, fought each other,
With claws and beaks in fury, they battled one another.
Then they fell, as death offerings on the ashes,
Their bodies, were now still, covered in gashes,
Recalling that brave soul from whom they sprang.
He who begot the sudden birds, his name forever rang,
“Memnonides”, the birds were called, after the man who had died;
The brave ashen warriors, who as a sacrifice provide.
From then on, the birds came back again and again,
To die in memory of Memnon who was slain.
Each year on the day, the birds were reborn and subdued.
Each year on the day, Aurora’s grief was renewed.

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