Penelope Strings Her Bow

I am Penelope; I am tired.
My fingers ache from 20 years of weaving,
Sitting straight at my distaff and loom.
Each morning I unseal my eyes to the sound
Of your movements across the sea,
Sailing farther and farther and farther
From me and love.
I've slept alone, shivering in an olive bed,
Chained and chaste to its great solid roots,
While you sail, sail to women who love you hard.
Oh, severe mercy of Death!
Why not send me away to brave deeds too?
The greatest punishment is to be left, cold.
Rumors of your conquests slip through old ladies' teeth.
Menacing whispers tickle my ears.
My weaving is done, the unraveling too.
I will weave my own shroud of death.
So, just as I return to a lonely bed each night,
My beloved Odysseus will return to sadness as well.