Oh, the torment bred in the race,
the grinding scream of death
and the stroke that hits the vein,
the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief,
the curse no man can bear.

But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no,
not from others but from them,
their bloody strife. We sing to you,
dark gods beneath the earth.

Now hear, you blissful powers underground — answer the call, send help.
Bless the children, give them triumph now.

Г е р м е с Мабуть у рабстві краще бути в скель оцих, Ніж Зевса-батька вісником довіреним?

П р о м е т е й Отак і треба зневажать зневажників

Thus he died, and all the life struggled out of him;
and as he died he spattered me with the dark red
and violent driven rain of bitter-savored blood
to make me glad, as gardens stand among the showers
of God in glory at the birthtime of the buds.