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O my country, O unhappy land—

I weep for you now left behind.

Now do you behold your piteous end.

And you, my house, where I gave birth.

O my children! bereft of her city as your mother is, she now is losing you. Oh, what mourning and what sorrow! . . . [605] oh, what endless streams of tears in our houses! The dead alone forget their griefs [and never shed a tear].

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