The old shepherd has died on the return,
and with him, the news. But the people of Corinth
have not given up hope in waiting for their new king.
They have kept a steadfast vigil at the gates, watching
day and night for the shepherd’s bald head over the horizon
or even the great clever man himself, come to save them.
Polybus is rotting in the ground. And poor Merope
has died of grief in half a year, mourning for a husband,
yearning for a son. But the people are still waiting,
the snake’s hiss of wind through dry grass
playing in their ears. They listen and wait.
They will never believe that he is blind, broken,
not coming. They’ll wait and hope for any word at all,
maybe a voice from beyond the hills, maybe a letter
full of good news. They’ll wait for their savior forever.
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