The Dead Man's Prayer

Stop! Listen to me, traveler. If your steps

take you to Cypselus or the shores of the Hebron,

look for old Hyllos and tell him to mourn long

for the son he will never see again.

My murdered flesh was a feast

for the wolves. The rest lies in this funereal thicket.

And the wandering shade, on the shores shadowed by Erebus,

weeps in anger. No one has avenged my death.

Go, then, and if ever, as night falls, you meet

at the foot of a mound or tomb a woman

whose pale brow is veiled in black,

draw near to her, fearing neither night nor magic.

It is my mother, stranger, who embraces an empty urn

on a vain tomb and fills it with her tears.