With roses from the florist,
Full of hope,
Steel in my muscles
(Life's the best of quenchers),
I dash to my awaiting Penelope,
Leaving behind all battles and adventures.

I've gotten old of risky escapades,
Changing my heart's imprisonment for freedom,
All of a sudden tired of wars and trades,
Even by Trojan Helen no more ridden,

To see my boy Telemachus
At home,
I'm back!
And here my Ithaca estranges
Her son, still prodigal and venturesome,
Astonishing with her excessive changes.

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