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from sarah mcausland:

pg. 127 Hecabe

Bring the great rounded shield of Hector; lay it here
A sight which should be welcome, but now stabs my eyes.
You achaeans are fine fighters; but where is your pride?
Did you so dread this young boy that you must invent
A new death for him?
If you had fallen in battle for your city,
You would be blessed. But, though you saw and recognized
This wealthy of life which was your heritage,
You had no use of it.
Now through the shattered skull the blood smile,
tempting me
To unseemigly words, Your little hands, how like your fathers!
You made me a promise once,
'Grandmother when you die I will cut off
A long curl of my hair for you, and bring my friends
With me to grace your tomb with gifts and holy words'.
You broke your promise
I, an old, homeless, childless woman, bury you.
Now, though you lose your father's heritage, you shall have
His broad, bronze-fronted shield to make your earthy bed.
(to the chorus) Come, bring whatever robes our
poverty can find
To drape his body, Rigorous Fate does not allow
The handsome gift; from what I have, these shall be
yours.
Those forces which
Control our fortunes are as unpredictable
As capering idiots. Happiness does not exist.