The Greek Cycle - Iphegenia, The Greek Cycle - Orestes

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Iphegenia

And so it comes to this:

That I, a maiden of tender years,

Must be sacrificed, so that the

Pride of Greek manhood be

Redeemed, and in unrepentant

Fury be launched against the

Shores of Troas and reclaim

That golden apple which the

Gods in their unfeeling contest

Did bestow upon that unwitting

Son of Priam. O father, what

Fate has so compelled you to

Sacrifice that which lately

You held so dear? We, unlike the

Deathless gods cannot discern the

Paths down which our actions

Lead: perhaps to glory and

Renown of arms; or by more

Sinister windings to come at

Last to justice meted out at

Furies' hands. Beware the clamor of

Men's acclaim! Where now they

Cry for death to mark their

Bold departure, in later times

Their cries, like those of my

Mother near at hand, will mark

The passing of a vengeful spirit

Taking life before its appointed time,

And dashing hopes of many a

Regal line, bereft of heirs.

Come now, father, the time to

Act descends upon us. Consecrate

Your host by this unworthy deed.

Give life to those doomed

Sometime for death; and in my

Death, grant life immortal.

Orestes

I am; I wait.

Like some half-remembered

Augury, abandoned by cruel fate,

To wait in silent longing

For catharsis unrequited,

As years slough by,

In suspended anticipation,

Of action uncompleted,

And justice unredeemed.

I am: I wait.

As from the shores of Troas,

Heroes late returning,

With struggles greatly gaining,

Their storied fathers' homeland,

And welcome then receiving,

Unwelcome and unlooked-for,

A final desecration for deeds

Instead for praise deserved.

I am; I wait.

The last remaining branch,

Of that insidious tree watered

By the blood of kin most dear,

And intimacy not permitted,

By gods nor man. An end

To make of this foul curse,

Ordained at last through son's

Fell deed.

I am; I wait.

Festering, mouldering, hate grown palpable,

The fruit of some dour tree,

That grows more rank when

Cultivated with revenge, instead

Of human sympathy. For sympathy

There is none, in this heart

Schooled in patricide, and

Inflamed by incestuous tyranny.

I am; I wait.

Slowly to unwind my longed-for

Revenge, like some serpent coiled

Upon a throne not earned,

But with deception and violence

Undeservedly gained. Balanced

Here between longing to strike,

And patience for a time

Propitious to the gods.

I am: I wait.

Soon the time will come,

When justice will be served,

Like some feast of children

To their parents given,

But lacking in appreciation,

That gift so grimly served.

Put off such thoughts of idleness,

Now to the deed be reconciled.

I am: I wait no longer,

But rush headlong to the throne,

Where to avenge the death of sister and father,

Must sever ties to one once held dear,

And avenge the loss of life beloved,

Through death's fruit most bitter.

And so with unreserved fury,

I go to render justice, and

Action take against the tyrant.

I am; I pause;

The deed completed, sword uncoiled,

Fury sated, delay undone,

And duty to the dead requited.

And wonder, what augury, what

Prophecy from the gods can

Unmake the curse still

Hanging like some shriveled tree,

Of malice over this house?

I am; I wait.

In terror for the answer

To my prayers, soon revealed

In further retribution to be meted out.

As from the furies, new violence bloom,

Like trees giving shade to generations

Unborn, waiting, with pregnant anticipation

To redeem those they loved,

Whose death came by hands once loved.

I am; I wait.