The dying gaul,
in my mind,
saw three days of mad war.
Empire had come to batter,
the forests that stood the doors of home.
Swords were run through the woodland gulleys,
making way for culture's end,
for yet more roads to lead to Rome.
And the sculpture speaks,
upon a shield,
of limbs for quieting dreams to rely on.
A veined marble hand kisses lightly to the knee,
saying in some wild, dead tongue:
"Sleep.
So long have you carried me."