I have studied the Science of departures, in nightâ€™s sorrows, when a womanâ€™s hair falls down. The oxen chew, thereâ€™s the waiting, pure, in the last hours of vigil in the town, and I reverence nightâ€™s ritual cock-crowing, when reddened eyes lift sorrowâ€™s load and choose to stare at distance, and a womanâ€™s crying is mingled with the singing of the Muse.
Who knows, when the word â€˜departureâ€™ is spoken what kind of separation is at hand, or of what that cock-crow is a token, when a fire on the Acropolis lights the ground, and why at the dawning of a new life, when the ox chews lazily in its stall, the cock, the herald of the new life, flaps his wings on the city wall?
I like the monotony of spinning, the shuttle moves to and fro, the spindle hums. Look, barefoot Deliaâ€™s running to meet you, like swansdown on the road! How threadbare the language of joyâ€™s game, how meagre the foundation of our life! Everything was, and is repeated again: itâ€™s the flash of recognition brings delight.
So be it: on a dish of clean earthenware, like a flattened squirrelâ€™s pelt, a shape, forms a small, transparent figure, where a girlâ€™s face bends to gaze at the waxâ€™s fate. Not for us to prophesy, Erebus, Brother of Night: Wax is for women: Bronze is for men. Our fate is only given in fight, to die by divination is given to them.