Cassandra

The wheel of justice grinds forever on
and we are grist beneath it as it spins,
ground down for all the sins of those who’ve gone,
as others will be broken for our sins.
Their blood cried out to us; ours calls again;
the wheel grinds on; the wind unceasing blows;
the count of crimes to answer only grows.

I lied once, to the god and to myself,
that I would love him for his promised gift,
this sight that sunder shadows ever delves
for precious truth.  When such a gem I lift
to catch the quickening sunlight, something shifts
and darkens every eye but mine.  I lied,
and for my perjury my brothers died.

But still I see the cobwebs of deceit.
Why waste your efforts cozening a slave?
You laid the cloths at Agamemnon’s feet
as shrouds to lay him in an unkind grave.
You need not fear; I’ll not cry out.  Who’d save
a captive thrall?  My brothers all are dead.
They’ll pay no ransom: You can go ahead,

but do not, pray, deceive yourself in this.
The wheel grinds on, and blood cries out for blood.
You shall have satisfaction but no bliss,
and will not stem the tide that turns to flood.
You, too, shall writhe, shall churn the ground to mud
beneath the justice coming for your deed.
But no, the god won’t let you pay me heed.

So be it.  Let me ramble as the mad:
Yet one shall come, shall all our sorrows feel,
who knows the long-lost daughter that you had
and holds in hand all punishments to deal—
but mercy stops the turning of the wheel.
Your justice grinds us both to dust, but he
will stop its rounds, and then we shall go free.

Then take me, Clytemnestra, as you deem.
I do not fear the swiftness of the knife,
and I shall live for you each time you dream
wrapped in the bloody shrouds of ancient strife.
‘Til mercy conquers vengeance, this is life.
But who would dare deny us vengeance here?
The wheel shall turn ‘til such a one draw near.

Cassandra (1898?) By Evelyn De Morgan (1855-1919) - Flickr and [1], Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=658924