Hera rows her boat out to sea,
She's searching for the island that never sleeps.
In its insomnia, it forgets to drop anchor.
It drifts across the ocean, a weary world traveller,
arms clasped around its hunted cargo.
Hera's rage could boil the seas.
Cursed never to die, to always remember,
she counts her age by her husband's lovers.
She recalls nights swinging in golden chains,
and before then, the heat of her own shame,
a virgin being raped by the sky.
Now she has this faithless thing she never wanted,
a rock around her neck, to remind her
that her pain is eternity, will never go away.
She closes her eyes to the night sky,
a small figure in the bottom of a boat.
The dreams come, visions of children,
half-gods, the sun and the moon.
The fear causes her to wake, violently,
the thought of returning to the heavens,
where all the citizens are products
of his indiscretions, gods, all,
as well as stones in her pockets,
heavy, pushing her down through the clouds.
She might never go back, stay here forever,
a fallen goddess, wandering the sea
in a tiny boat. But no, she decides,
there's the revenge to be considered,
the justice that needs delivering,
unto the heads of feckless men,
loose women, innocent children.
Hera is a hard woman,
though she's no woman at all.
She says that she has to be.
