Philomel, the stringed quartet sings, still
Swallowing such fear you ought not to speak.
Melodies of lost sailor’s tears should kill
But leave behind such sylvan scenes.
Philomela, your abated Athenian diadem
Behind you, staggering girl, your thighs engraved
By the twisted claws, your nape caught in his hand,
He held you helpless suspect to be saved.
And when complete, he left you dead, dripping
Thick red sea foam from your blushing lips
Soundless screams in lonely halls, ripping
Discourse from your script.
Philomel, your silent song echoes swift
By sea shores on viola strings.
Refrains of weeping girls are left
To be carried on your wings.