[He has nearly forgotten that the girl stands there: she is as the wind whose invisible hand pushes the waves, while the album in his grip is the ocean whose majesty draws his awe. And just as the sea swells to a crest and then sinks hollow, so too is Neoptolemus' delight shadowed by despair. How his heart aches for this man whose countenance he can see but whose hands he cannot clasp, whose voice he cannot hear.
He tries to place himself in the scene, traveling in his mind to this foreign land whose dress is so strange, alongside his father - what would he tell him? And what would he answer in return?
Turning the pages, slowly as he tries to absorb into his memory his father's image, and yet lurching as he eagerly seeks more moments to absorb, he notices that always close by his father stands another man whose features too call back to Hellas, that land girt by the sea.]
Who is this man, who seems to me to be a son of Achaea like my father?
no subject
He tries to place himself in the scene, traveling in his mind to this foreign land whose dress is so strange, alongside his father - what would he tell him? And what would he answer in return?
Turning the pages, slowly as he tries to absorb into his memory his father's image, and yet lurching as he eagerly seeks more moments to absorb, he notices that always close by his father stands another man whose features too call back to Hellas, that land girt by the sea.]
Who is this man, who seems to me to be a son of Achaea like my father?