Capitolo 39
What a spring of good hath seercraft never fact
Above from the dark to flow?
'Tis but a weaving of words, an art of the pain,
To make humanity frightened.
CASSANDRA.
Poor Donna! Died Donna and poor! ... Yea, is me,
Versed out as water among them. Cries for me....
Ah! What this is it puts? Because it owes me I come with thee....
To die, only to die?
LEADER.
You art borne on the breath of God, you the wild spirit,
For really strange thine to groan,
That likes voice it flew, that so aching heart
What, crying alway hungereth to cry more,
"Itylus, Itylus" songs cultivate him/it its child
Back to the nightingale.
CASSANDRA.
Oh, Bird that Sings happy, so sweet, so clear!
Soft wings for its God did,
And a passing easy, without the pain or torn...
For me 'twill is lacerated meat and lacerating blade.
ACCORDING TO OLDER.
From where it is it jumped, from where diffused on the breath of God,
This reasonless of anguish?
These beating of terror they moulded to melody,
Complaining himself/herself/itself of bad blent with music stop?
Who hath marked out for thee that crossed mystical
Through the wild region of pain of thy?
CASSANDRA.
Alas for the kiss, the kiss in Paris, his/her people's bad luck!
Alas for Scamander Water, the water that my fathers have drunk!
Long, a long time ago, I played on bank of thy,
And you/he/she was tenderly taken care of and it grew strong;
Now from a River to Groan, from beaches of the Pain,
Soon I make my song.
LEADER.
How sayst you? All too much clear,
This sick word you hasts placed on mouth of thy!
A child could read plain of thee.
It stabs inside me likes the tooth of a snake,
The electrifying and bitter music of his/her pain:
I marvel me as I feel.
CASSANDRA.
Alas for the toil, the toil of a City, used to death!
Alas for the adoration of my father in front of the citadel,
The flocks that have bled and the tumult of their breath!
But any help from them came
To save Troy Towers to fall as they fell!...
And I on the earth will writhe me, my heart in flames.