From the Journals of Iphigenia

So gentle is she, Artemis the holy,

She will not have her sacred altar

Stained with innocent blood.

She healed me, born me away

To this cursed barbaric land.

A fierce people here lives.

Their savage custom to spill

The blood of any Greek they seize.

In greatest irony, Artemis had me

Be the high priestess of her sacred grove.

I have served and I have served,

Countless doomed bodies I cleansed:

Old, young, strong, frail, good, evil,

All went to Hades’ dark embrace.

My own countrymen, my brothers and sisters,

To be put to death by my cursed divine hand.

The guilt is unbearable,

I wish for deliverance.

I pray toward Apollo,

And Truth he speaks:

There is but one thread

For me in this world:

Not father the betrayer

But little brother dear.