If Philomela could sing, would she tell of her injustices?
What, then, would be the value of her song,
serving only to embody the brutality she sustained?

How fearsome it is to be voiceless, even before her flight;
Painting but a bleak landscape of departed prospects.
Is this what drove the abominable, kindled by depraved hunger for retribution?

The unspeakable occurs, preceded by apprehension
whose effect was not strong enough to prevent ignition.
An atrocity traded for another until only futility itself remained:

And what of Titus Andronicus? Wherein mirrored horrors were celebrated,
amalgamated into one of history’s magnum opi.
Lavinia’s fate engraved by the sins of others, a powerless prisoner of circumstance.

Unlike her counterpart, Philomela arose.
Alas-
Saved by the celestial in a flurry of sympathy,
The nightingale is set free.
Time has escaped its feathered grasp,
Longing for her song no more.