Ranting of Cassandra

And you, cuckold sailor, going to get down to Acheron, no more walking the barn-forced steadings: father more powerful than when you were a judge of three goddesses' beauty. But that stable you should keep the sharks in the ass and read, and instead of a good feed manger and sheep flock and natural press industry people on the boat and oars in Phereclus.  Out you two thorough fares and levels of Gytheion, where brisk-fallen cliffs drop large teeth, and pine-ship anchor against the flood, you shall rest in a fleet of nine-sail playing.

(or here)

That was either a stupid or a desperate thing to do.

Perhaps it was degenerate,

perhaps degenerative.

(three)

You whose aspect has again been forced to gaze at crossed spears and the abuses of your spaces and the fire that unmakes our works: I grieve two, three times, grieve for the country, for the grave of Atlas's daughter's seaborne son who in a coracle enclosed - all alone - as he left Zerynthos at the beginning of the deluge. 

(After their towers were razed and those who survived swam desperately to avoid doom, having seen it.  Strange seas: on the fruits of the soil grazed the whales and perhaps the dolphins slept a short time in the alien beds of men.)

The dove.  The flight of fire.  Hound of Pephnos.  In rounded shell, as boat.  Vulture-lain.