How unlike Hercules, who brought you such a state after only twelve exertions. Now you, clones of Atlas, whiteface, heads bent inwards in forced supplication have to bear the Belvedere on the small of your backs. Quadruplets, if only you could have confronted history instead of fate, the dreams of Franz Joseph’s Kaisertum could have been annihilated with a simple shrugstanding up and walking away in cardinal directions. How long will you carry the weight of missed opportunity, of letting Atalanta pull the bowstring before you, bringing down both the Caledonian boar and your pride. Petrified procrastinators, you fluffed redemption yet again letting your legacy be purloined by a Schwarze Hand with a semiautomatic, who needed but the right moment to take down both Ferdinand and the continent. Ex-argonauts, KO’ed by a momentary loss of nerve, now like Sisyphus stay condemned to perform the one labour for all eternity.