Come, all you muses and bards

With broken lyres and cut strings

Hear what has become of your

Vengeful, cruel hero

Pulled from the mud

of my sweetest Lyrnessus 

by the charred fingertips

 Of Greece's fiercest fighter

In the heat of the sun

With no Gods or prophecies to guide me

Biding my time like a blushing bride

With a husband holding only selfish interest

Freedom is a right like a sword

Wielded only by those born into unknown corners 

Unfounded by our merciless Olympic legends

 Our spars years gone from their minds

After the arrow is shot, city burned, women returned

I stand as a mere object 

Praying my child will forget my face

So I may greet my father before dark

Sinking, singing, singeing 

The last dream that may remain

It would be kinder to drown in darkness 

Then to attend eternal paradise on his arm

Was he sweeter to my family

In their swift, soft slaughter 

Then to me, remembered by history 

As nothing more than his