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Defeat
I was twelve that cold spring,
old enough to be with the women.
At dawn, they let us go to the field
to make the holy rites of death.
I remember, my mother wept and wailed
as she beat off the carrion crows
that blackened my father’s face.
A Thracian claimed me as his prize;
I bled on the flanks of his horse.
Later, he washed away this ill omen
with water caught in his bronze cup
To please the gods, he turned me off
to hobble behind with the others.
I hid my bloody skirts in shame.
Defeat: Text
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