O capricious Gods, that treat mortals as your play and sport,
How you weigh Hector’s fortunes in the scales,
As if some common transaction, not the noble husband he be,
Let man be the master of his fate, not fate forged before the womb.
A nobler providence awaits you in life; quick now Hector flee!

I cannot bear to look.
See how the cruel spear of fate, does his dear blood spill, 
Overflowing his beloved’s chalice with grief,
Yet already I have consumed my fill of sorrow, until I am drunk with anguish; 
my brothers and my father, before stolen by the same cruel thief,
O, how his cherished father, will have his heart rent asunder!

Look how lovingly he dies.
He only calls out for his Son and Wife,
As his precious life drains into the sand, does my soul desert me too,
Let me leap from this wall, and be one with my beloved in death,
Then let winged love rise us up, twin stars that will forever shine,
Better than to be a ghost mourning and remembering, 
…until the thief steals my life. 

Listen to that piteous howl - that heart-rending grief, 
(even the carrion crows and Greeks pause presently from shame)
Can only be from the one that carried, gave birth and carried again that part of herself
- Hecuba’s flesh is torn from her womb, only now sweet memories left,
Her favorite Son’s tender smile and touch, never to be seen and felt again;
all for divine payment, for Achilles’ lust of fame.

My poor son Astyanax, how he weeps, 
I must shield his eyes from the blows of the Greeks, 
Soon his tears will turn to blank stares, 
wondering where is his father to ruffle his hair,
Who will teach him to hunt and ride, and to shoot his bow and arrow with pride,
For him I must be strong and cling onto life, 
for every time I look at him, Hector will survive!