Whose fault is this that laid my city low?
The bronze-greaved soldiers, odious little men
led by their squabbling lords who even now
devour us with their eyes? It is not so.
Their hands it was who pulled our stones apart,
who spread these tatters of my life about
so one man wears my winter cloak, one laughs
and shows his friend the cup my grandson made
upon his little wheel, his first that worked.
They dash it down to break on these cracked flags
for memory was all that made it fine
the paltry pieces crushed beneath their feet
as they go laughing on; the child too died.
Their hands that held the hurling spears, the swords
that slew the city's strength, would turn as soon
to their own fields and folk, as well to blame
this broken pot, this digging stick, this stone,
such things as these may all turn in the hand.
Their lords then, yes, their lords knew what they did
who ordered Troy destroyed, yet cause they claimed;
they sought to bring an errant wife to heel.
A stolen woman, hospitality
more stolen still, but see, her rightful lord
clenches his fingers in her golden hair.
So shall we blame my son, the idiot boy,
the foolish lout who fled, who fell in love
with face and form and phantom, was deceived,
brought stolen Helen home to share his bed?
Take any boy and make a prince of him,
show beauty's form and let him lust for love,
and who can blame his heart? For hearts leap fast
and heads may follow after, plodding on.
Or blame that bitch, that flattered candy queen,
who hearts and towers burned, so beautiful,
so callous, disregarding of all strife.
But yet, again, take any girl at twelve
call her "the beautiful", bring to her bed
an old and ugly king, to bear his sons,
for twenty years, shall she resist the prince
who worships where she breathes, sees beauty walk
where she finds starting wrinkles, one white hair?
They are at fault, they are to blame, but I
am sick and tired of cursing, sick of hate.
I see the blood not just of fifty sons,
(a village worth of sons, I'd tease my king,)
but a whole city's slaughter-yield of sons,
of sons and fathers both; our men are dead,
our stones are flung apart, are cracked and rent,
our captive women carried off in chains.
So I survey this wreck that was so fair,
my sons, my grandsons, all I had or cared,
I see the cunning coward's homebound sail
that comes to bear me soon so far away.
I, who am guiltless, I, who was a queen,
I who with shoulders bowed shall walk the shore
longing for news of home, a slave of war,
my city fallen, and my kinsfolk gone.
Oh I have railed and cursed, and raised my arms
to curse the gods, to share this bitter blame,
cursed Paris, Helen, cursed the race of Greeks,
myself as victim, helpless, on this spot
the queen of devastation, queen of hate.
But then a wretched story reached my ears
that laid all blame upon the lofty gods
some nonsense of an apple, Paris' choice,
to lose the world for love, well, so he did,
with no god-guided aim, no apples here,
and I see clearly now, we're guilty all
who made this world that led these fools to this.
Little avails my cursing, I who thought
too little and too late, what did I do?
I take the blame myself, for my fault's part
I raised my son to be a trifling fool
and did not send her back, and that was wrong,
to risk so many for so little's sake.
I took that risk, yes, I, I and my lord,
and all our counsellors, and all our sons,
and all our city, Troy that is no more.
So in the tatters of my former pride
while all around me wail, I dry my eyes
and still and silent sit, like shattered stone.
Back to Before The Broken Walls of Troy 2
Coming Soon: Before the Broken Walls of Troy 4, Aeneas
Forward to The Conception of
Cuchulain
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