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Oh, memorial of the man dearest to me,
what remains to me of the life of Orestes, how far from what I hoped I have received you back, not like the one I sent away. For now I hold you-nothingness-in my hands, but from home, child, I sent you brightness itself. I should have left life before then, before I sent you to a strange land, with these hands, in secret, and saved you from death. Then you would have died on that day and shared a burial with your father, in his tomb. But now, far from home and in another place, an exile you died miserably, apart from me, your sister. And I didn't hold you in my arms and bathe you and make you ready, and I didn't take you from the blazing fire, as I should, a pitiful weight, but tended by strange hands wretchedly you have come, a small lump in a small jar. Oh, the misery of it, of my care for you long ago, useless the care I lavished on you again and again, a sweet labor. No dearer to your mother were you than to me; none in the house were your nurse but I, and I was ever sister to you. Now this is gone in a day dead with you. Snatching all like a whirlwind you're gone. Father's gone. I am dead. You yourself are off, you're dead, and my enemies laugh. She's crazy with pleasure, mother no mother, about whom you often sent secret messages, saying you'd appear yourself to punish her. But this too our unhappy daimon, yours and mine, took away, who has sent you to me thus, dust and useless shadow instead of your dearest shape. oimoimoi. oh piteous body. heu, heu. oh, most terrible, oimoimoi the journey you took, dearest, how you have destroyed me. Yes, you have destroyed me, my dear brother. So you, receive me in your shelter, into nothingness I who am nothing, so with you below I may live the rest of time. When you were up here I had an equal share with you. So now in death I long not be left out of your tomb. For I see that the dead feel no pain |
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