Nest of Vipers

Beautiful scribe for Iphicles's words

The new prophecies of Cybele

The son with blood, by water's done, the truth is never seen.

The third is hooked by a harpy's look — the rarest of all birds.

The course is cooked by a slave-boy's stroke; the fruit is lost with babes.

The matron's words alone are heard, the addled heart is ringed.

The one near sea falls by a lie that comes from the gelding's tongue.

The doctor's lad will take the stairs, from darkness comes the wronged,

No eyes, no hands and vengeance done, but worthless is the prize.

One would-be queen knows hunger's pangs when Cerberus conducts her.

One brother's crime sees him dine at leisure of his bed.

One would-be queen is one-eyed too until the truth gives comforts.

When tiny shoes a cushion brings, the cuckoo's king rewarded.

Your work is done, it's time to leave — the sword is yours to pass.

Your mother lives within this queen: she who rules beyond you.

The end, the end, your mother says — to deception now depend.

So long asleep, now sleep once more, your Attis is Veiovis.