Dear women, you keep the house in order, best you can; and now you've come to the grave to
say a prayer with me, my escorts. I'll need your help with this.
What to say when I pour the cup of sorrow?
Lifting her libation cup.
What kindness, what prayer can touch my father?
Shall I say I bring him love for love, a woman's
love for husband? My mother, love from her?
I've no taste for that, no words to say
as I run the honeyed oil on father's tomb.
Or try the salute we often use at graves?
'A wreath for a wreath. Now bring the givers
gifts to match'... no, give them pain for pain.
Or silent, dishonored, just as father died,
empty it out for the soil to drink and then
retrace my steps, like a slave sent out with scourings
left from the purging of the halls, and throw
the cup behind me, looking straight ahead.
Help me decide, my friends. Join me here.
We nurse a common hatred in the house.
Don't hide your feelings - no, fear no one.
Destiny waits us all,
Looking towards the tomb.
born free, or slaves who labour under another's hand. Speak to me, please. Perhaps you've
had
a glimpse of something better.