Like fires loosed from adverse sides into woodlands dry as tinder, 610 thickets of rustling laurel, or foaming rivers hurling down from a mountain ridge and roaring out to sea, each leaves a path of destruction in its wake. Just as furious now those two, Aeneas, Turnus rampaging through the battle, now their fury boils over inside them, now their warring hearts at the breaking point—they don’t concede defeat— and now they hack their wounding ways with all their force.
sometimes you just have to marvel at the language in fagles' translations more than usual
