They knew the men they sent,
but now in place of men
ashes and urns come back
to every hearth.
War, War, the great gold-broker of corpses
holds the balance of the battle on his spear!
Home from the pyres he sends them,
home from Troy to the loved ones,
heavy with tears, the urns brimmed full,
the heroes return in gold-dust,
dear, light ash for men; and they weep,
they praise them, 'He had sk** in the swordplay,'
'He went down so tall in the onslaught,'
'All for another's woman.' So they mutter in secret
and the rancour steals
towards our staunch defenders, Atreus' sons.
And there they ring the walls, the young,
the lithe, the handsome hold the graves
they won in Troy; the enemy earth
rides over those who conquered.
The people's voice is heavy with hatred,
now the curses of the people must be paid,
and now I wait, I listen...
there - there is something breathing
under the night's shroud. God takes aim
at the ones who murder many;
the swarthy Furies stalk the man
gone rich beyond all rights - with a twist
of fortune grind him down, dissolve him
into the blurring dead - there is no help.
The reach for power can recoil,
the bolt of god can strike you at a glance.
Make me rich with no man's envy,
neither a raider of cities, no,
nor slave come face to face with life
overpowered by another.
Elders Speaking singly.
- Fire comes and the news is good,
it races through the streets
but is it true? Who knows? Or just another lie from heaven?
- Show us the man so childish, wonderstruck,
he's fired up with the first torch,
then when the message shifts he's sick at heart.
-Just like a woman to fill with thanks before the truth is clear.
- So gullible. Their stories spread like wildfire,
they fly fast and die faster;
rumours voiced by women come to nothing.