PENELOPE'S DESPAIR
Yannis Ritsos
Not that she didn't recognize him in the fireside light; nor was it
the beggar's rags, the disguise; no: transparent signs -
the scarred knee, the sturdiness, the craftiness in the eye. Startled,
leaning he back against the wall, she sought some justification,
a short reprieve from having to respond,
and be betrayed. Were twenty years wasted for him then?
Twenty years of dreams and anticipation, for this wretch,
these white whiskers soaked in blood? She sank mute onto a chair,
slowly she gazed at the slaughtered suitors on the floor, as if seeing
her own muffled aspirations. And she uttered, "Welcome,"
heeding her own strange and distant voice. In the corner her loom
veiled the ceiling in trelliswork shadows; and those birds, woven
against green foliange in striking red year, suddenly
turned black and gray on this homecoming night,
hovering in the unbroken sky of her final perseverance.