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Your temple is his tomb, and you are forever at his side, where he wanted you, and you hold him always.
Were you glad of his death, when he arrived at your side, a wan shade in the Elysian plains? You died of arrogance and stupidity, and he of grief and carelessness. You were more alike than I knew—and I thought I knew him well—deity and divine hero. He laid himself at your unfinished altar, and the world has been laid at his.
You have won forever, tall Macedonian. Is your victory sweet, all mingled tears and blood?