Electra

The unquiet urge to ascend persists
And fills these parched stone seats.
Below the gold pool in the center,
Where once the altar stood,
Is revealed as pure still water.
Again tonight the son will slay,
Offstage, his father's killer,
And carry out his mother's corpse,
Now draped in twine and rags,
And lay it out, an offering, before us,
As the chorus, marching slowly,
Chants the moral of the play.
The daughter, drenched in ebony, screams
Words we hear but do not know.
Above these shadows on the stage
Bats through a maze of light pursue
Gnats within the smoke of speech.

                        -- At Epidaurus