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112 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 451
Thou tell’st thy tale
To no weak woman, but to one who knows
Mankind are never constant to one joy.
Then even there,
With thine own hand uplifting this my body,
Taking what friends thou wilt, and having lopped
Much wood from the deep-rooted oak and rough
Wild olive, lay me on the gathered pile,
And burn all with the touch of pine-wood flame.
Let not a tear of mourning dim thine eye;
But silent, with dry gaze, if thou art mine,
Perform it. Else my curse awaits thee still
To weigh thee down when I am lost in night.

"Bir insan yarını ya da birkaç gün sonrasını
hesaplıyorsa beyinsizdir. Çünkü bugünü
sorunsuz geçmeden yarını hiç olmaz!"
"No one forsees the future,Thus laments Hyllos, son of Herakles and Deianeira; his mother has unwittingly poisoned his mighty hero-father, thinking that she was giving him a love potion so that he would see no one but her (this being prompted by Herakles sending back home to her another, younger woman to be his wife). Deianeira ends her life when she realizes what she has done, and Herakles – dying of the poison – asks to be burned (selfishly he asks his son to do the burning, who refuses—patricide being a great sin). In other words, it does not get much more tragic than Women of Trakhis.
but our present is awash with grief
that shames even the gods, and pain
beyond anything we can know
strikes this man who now meets his doom.
Women, don't cower in the house.
Come with us. You've just seen death
and devastating calamity, but
you've seen nothing that is not Zeus."