Andromache

Widow of Hector

Cry not for gods,  scream you no curses past,
Or he will unwashed and  untended be
To the hungering sands then cruely cast.
Its said his father fought too valiantly, 
He struck too many warriors screaming down
to dark and stygian hades,  where the cries
of women’s ancient sorrows still yet sound,
As if just newly learned: their son dies.
Tend you his body, weep all a mother can,
Accept the harder fate, that you might cope
And bear the son, of the son, of the man,
Who the breaker of horses slew. There’s hope

On farther shores, but he at Troy will keep.
Andromache - not yours to curse, but weep.

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