He died a coward’s death, vain and foolish. Indeed my lover said
he deserved such an end, he killed our own for speed –
But I cannot stay my mind, I think a warrior
should die some other death;
I cannot help myself, I gave away too much
and revenge is not so sweet as I had dreamt. That woman,
his woman, the prophetess he kept, walked to her death
and said that death waited here, in this house.
It has driven me to too many things
and I have had enough of waiting. I killed her,
killed my husband, killed my daughter’s love – my son lives, for I was weak;
I have had enough of blood, none satisfies.
I wake, sometimes, in the night, when the shadows grow thick in my palace.
They do not leave, do not speak, tangled in winding sheets
they crowd away sleep, and bring only quiet:
which is cold comfort now the blood is sponged away.
I am afraid, and when my lover would forget his sorrows and my own
I feel the old hate, duller, course, and were I not so weary then
I could have killed him too.
I wait for hell, though I have had enough of it.
This is a house of death.
Lovely, well done.
Out of curiosity, are you using a particular poetic meter here?
Ah such a tragedy...revenge for Iphegenia (and, in some versions, for her infant son by her first husband). You captured the tragic essence of her and Cassandra both here...well done!