The man-god stands apart,
burnishing his youth.

The sword he clutches drips
with gore more green than red.

The sisters hover round
her broken frame and murmur,

Pity, pity. Their tresses hiss
and snarl, coiling, writhing,

coiling, writhing. Her serpents
lap her clotting blood. Her sisters

stretch their leather wings
and fly to purge the bitter gall

of their revenge, singing,
Sorry sister, Better you than us.