Let us live, my Klytaimnestra, and let us love,
valuing at no more than a single axe the mutterings of
our over-cursed ancestors.
Beacons may be quenched and lit again,
but once my brief light
is gone there is but one endless night that must be slept through.
Give me a thousand blows, then a hundred, then another thousand,
then a second hundred
and then let us mix up the total lest our children know it and take their
revenge.