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She took the torn limbs to her bosom, poor soul, and twined them in her hair. At last her voice was loosed to find a passage for her sorrow and her moans dissolved into words: Sweet semblance of the children who have forsaken me, Archemorus,  solace of my lost estate and country, pride of my servitude, what guilty gods took your life, my joy, whom but now in parting I left at play, crushing the grasses as you hastened in your forward crawl? Ah, where is your starry face? Where your words unfinished in constricted sounds, and laughs and gurgles that only I could understand? How often would I talk to you of Lemnos and the Argo and lull you to sleep with my long tale of woe! So I would console my sorrow and give the little one a mothers breasts. Now in my bereavement the milky flow comes to me in vain, dropping hapless into your wounds.
final_alignments\Statius_Thebaid_Book5.json