Pursuer and Prey 

Achilles was still pursuing relentlessly.
The way a dog, a hunter’s, up in the hills
flushes out of its underbrush retreat
a tender fawn, and rushes behind in chase,
shadowing through the deeply wooded glens;
the fawn gives him the slip, and anxiously
cowers beneath a heavy screen of bushes;
but the hound persists, picks up on the scent,
never quits until he uncovers the prey—so Hektor
couldn’t shake Achilles. Repeatedly
he tried to dart directly for the gates, below
the fortifications, hoping helping hands
would hail down missiles onto the swift pursuer;
but Achilles repeatedly cut him off, swooped
between the wall and the Trojan, turned him
back out into the plain. The spectacle
was something baffling, eerie, like some dream
where flight and chase alike have no effect—
the quarry cannot escape his nemesis,
the harrier cannot overtake his prey.
Like that the heroes ran around in circles
around the city, equally powerless,
one to seize, the other to get free.

 [Iliad 22.188-201]