Agamemnon is returning to Mycenae,
Cassandra by his side.
The sails billow and tauten,
the hastening winds driving the ship onwards.
When he leans from the bow,
Does he taste the salt tears of Iphigenia?
When a sudden trough shakes the vessel,
Does he remember her terror?
Cassandra does, but her cries go unheeded,
Stifled by Apollo’s cruel regard.
The Erinyes murmur with the waves,
The curse of the gods on this family woven indelibly.
Whether he is blinded by arrogance or ignorance,
Small matter either, for his fate remains fixed.
Clytemnestra is waiting with her axe
And a mother’s implacable fury,
While on her is fixed Electra’s pitiless gaze.
O Atreides, each of you is born on a funeral pyre
With the cold laughter of the gods your chorus.
Good will not prevail here,
Only sorrow and sorrow and sorrow.
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