That he should weep for her?

Here on the headland where the black ships passed,
where the pentekonters battled the winter gales,
mother dog still keeps watch from her lonely grave,
too late now to guard her regal litter,
her heroes, her seeresses, her slaughtered ones.

          When the sea surrendered the body of her youngest son,
          murdered for the treasures she had left with him
          hoping to  ensure his safety after the carnage,
          her spirit broke.

The madness that she had held in check
when a virgin daughter's blood was spilt before his tomb
to speed the ghost of a murderous general on its way
to his new found home among the whimpering shades,
now clawed its  way forth and bloodied the treacherous cheeks
when she ripped out the eyes  of her final enemy.

          That scene played, but unknowing of the fate
          that still awaited that daughter accursed by derided truths,
          she killed herself.

A kindlier conqueror gave her the last rites,
setting her tomb above the narrow seas 
that had brought his own ships to her city's ruin.
Even now, the queen who has become the bitch goddess
looks on the waters and waits forever on the headland.

          All mortal martial glories have long since disappeared
          from both conquerors and conquered.
          Myths alone remain.

                      In them she has been reviled not as a caring mother
                      but as a rabid bitch who murdered for revenge.

So what is she to us? Little more than a phrase
that epitomises man's inhumanity to man
and echoes chiasmic in thespian hypocrisy.