A queer and fearful question is tight, Oppresses my soul and tosses: Can one be alive if Atreus has died -- Has died on a bed of roses. All that we dreamed of and everywhere praised, All our longing and fear -- Were fully reflected in those calm eyes, As were in a glass of a tear. Ineffable power dwelt in his hands, A saga of feet was retold; A beautiful cloud he was for his land Mycenae -- the country of gold. What am I? A fragment of ancient dread, A javelin, fallen on earth -- Atreus, the leader of nations, is dead, -- But I have been spared by death. The down is full with reproachful flame, The waters enticingly sing, It?s hard to exist with the horrible shame, If one had forfeited one's king.