Maine

I see the ship that took me through the gates of Erebus, and down into sulfurous Tartarus.

It had flown through the cold air for three thousand miles, 

Far away from my cold Ithaca,

Just to deliver me to the warm air of suffering.

I was obligated to come here, too this burning place

Without a choice, without the ability to opt out.

Forced to endure hard earthed grounds, and sleep deprivation.

Without the ability to bargain with Hades.

My attempts to rest are broken by the Erinyes,

ripping at my soft flesh, my knees shattering under their whips.

I wait a month for my freedom, a break from my shackles.

For the φθινόπωρο, for Eurus to carry me home on soft autumnal winds.

For the return to my cold Ithaca.