My days were simple.
Care for my rams and craft cheese.
Simple. They were simple.
My people are more
than savage killers and thieves.
They are more than you.
We had a prophet
many, many years ago.
He spoke. We listened.
He told me “Someday
the man Odysseus, will
steal your gift of sight.”
This man I pondered.
I considered and wondered
whom this man could be.
Strong? Of course he is.
Impressive? Oh, he must be.
Smart? Certainly so.
But my life passed on.
The prophet died, and his tales
ebbed from memory.
My rams. My kinsmen.
These filled my days, and I was
content in my life.
You. You came and stole.
You demanded I give more.
You told lies, small thief.
You and yours are not
the same as me or my kin.
Your blood is bitter.
Did they deserve more?
Was their leader truly good?
No, Thief, you are vile.
But you refused to
lay down and die easily.
You tricked me, Mortal.
You filled me with wine.
Bitter falsehoods you fed me.
My mistake: I slept.
Searing pain. My screams.
You wretched worm of mankind.
Oh, this white, hot pain.
Have you had your eyes
stabbed out with a burning stick?
No. You have both eyes.
You robbed me of mine.
My sight. My dear brothers’ trust.
You stole these from me.
Taunt me. Shout at me.
I hear you. Poseidon hears.
He will avenge me.
And these, my dear rams,
I will tend with my last breath,
but not near as well.
Rest is my freedom.
I dream and my eye still sees
the pastures, the rams.
You could never take
everything from me, Thief.
You can’t take my dreams.
