Just last night, the queen kills herself again
As Aeneas sits on his ship, sails set
For Italy and the glory of war.
Oh Elissa, heart like sand at low tide,
You who fall to sharpened sword and bright pyre,
The man you broke your solemn oaths to hold
Does not weep for flames that rise in Carthage-
Dry-eyed, he shrugs at the desperate flare.
For the son of Venus, love weighs less than duty.
