From Publius to Marcus
Marcus, I owe you an apology:
I named you Antinous to Gaius’s Hadrian,
Not in jest, but with a curse to the gods,
Wishing ruin on your treacherous shade.
...
This farm, this land, was my charge
Long before you donned your Janus mask,
Feigning peace while sowing strife,
A weevil gnawing at the heart of my grain.
...
You bring chaos to these fields,
A blight worse than drought or rot,
Corrupting Gaius with your impious charm,
His fields now fallow under your shadow.
...
While I toil, bone-weary, in the searing heat,
Tending your fields and mine,
Sweat and soil my offering to kin and gods,
You claim the harvest I’ve sown.
...
My altars brim with piety,
The Capitoline triad blesses my soul and soil,
Yet you, sweet Antinous, reap my plenty,
Lazing in the shade of my labor’s fruit.
...
No more. I sever ties with you and this land.
Keep these fields—a fitting pyre for your folly.
I forge you a parting gift: a wreath of thorns,
Culled from the ruin you’ve wrought.
...
Woe to your plow, doomed to rust,
While I seek new fields to tend.
My seeds will bloom under noonday sun,
Your name forgotten, your shadow undone.
Signed, PERTINAX
Jun 17, 2024
Jun 17, 2024 at 11:57 PM UTC
From Publius to Marcus
Marcus, I owe you an apology:
I named you Antinous to Gaius’s Hadrian,
Not in jest, but with a curse to the gods,
Wishing ruin on your treacherous shade.
...
This farm, this land, was my charge
Long before you donned your Janus mask,
Feigning peace while sowing strife,
A weevil gnawing at the heart of my grain.
...
You bring chaos to these fields,
A blight worse than drought or rot,
Corrupting Gaius with your impious charm,
His fields now fallow under your shadow.
...
While I toil, bone-weary, in the searing heat,
Tending your fields and mine,
Sweat and soil my offering to kin and gods,
You claim the harvest I’ve sown.
...
My altars brim with piety,
The Capitoline triad blesses my soul and soil,
Yet you, sweet Antinous, reap my plenty,
Lazing in the shade of my labor’s fruit.
...
No more. I sever ties with you and this land.
Keep these fields—a fitting pyre for your folly.
I forge you a parting gift: a wreath of thorns,
Culled from the ruin you’ve wrought.
...
Woe to your plow, doomed to rust,
While I seek new fields to tend.
My seeds will bloom under noonday sun,
Your name forgotten, your shadow undone.
Signed, PERTINAX
