Helen's shadow on Trojan rocks
		still threatens the Greeks,
		burdens them with the highest taxes
		the loved exacts from the lover:
		middle-class teashop warmth forsaken,
		adding machines count the killed,
		a scarce spring, a fruitless autumn,
		quiet markets and barren cribs:
		see the wretched pass for the mad,
		the mad for the licentious
		shoadows creeping after the main
		shadow over the town--
		see her blank eyes
		washed clean of mercy,
		memory of the guilt reflecting
		future centuries' blood.