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Joseph Josephides
This is not Cassandra’s crying ‘Troy is being subjugated’,
nor is it Tiresias howling ‘alas, what an ugly destiny for Theba.’
It’s the aged soothsayer who foresees misfortunes,
speechless he talks with the rivers of his deep wrinkles,
his warping body, his breathless chest that sink in his ribs,
his fingers that heave his cheeks while mourning. Trice alas…
his unchanging glance forebodes us the rumble thunder,
the unsuspected heavy sea in the gasping of the calm.