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255No tale of how I live has reached my home
or found its way to any part of Greece;
but those ungodly men who left me here
conceal their deed, and laugh, while my disease
continues, flourishes, grows even greater.
260O child, son of Achilles, I am he
whom you perhaps have heard of, he who wields
the bow of Heracles: I am the son
of Poeas, Philoctetes. Long ago
the king of Ithaca and his commanders
265deserted me unjustly on this island,
to rot with savage plagues inflicted by
the noxious poison of a deadly viper.
With only this, my son, they left me here
alone, and sailed away. At first they brought me
270from Chryse to this island in their ships;
then, overjoyed to see me fast asleep
here in this rocky cave, they sailed away
and left me nothing but a few soiled rags
such as a beggar wears, and a small pittance,
275of food. May such a fate soon crush them too!
But you, my child - perhaps you can imagine
the awakening I had when they were gone.
Oh how I wept and cursed my evil fortune
when I beheld the ships which I had sailed in
all vanished. Not a man remained behind:
280no one to help me live, and none to soothe
my wearying disease. I searched all over
and soon discovered only grief was there,
but that in plentiful supply, my son.
Time in its unremitting course went on,
and I, within this narrow cave alone,
The women of Trachis and Philoctetes. A new translation in verse by Robert Torrance. Houghton Mifflin. 1966.
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