Poor man, in recognizing his own wretchedness sole
Upon the Plains of Tunis, and the pillars of smoke
His enemy obliterated from the earth
But their soul,
Not so.
Rome, his daughter, to one day be given to the field
To be cast as coin and
As a slave, sold
The gift of Scipio's victory
Fades unknown
as the iron fence on the gates
Pounded by salted airs
And lost to bitter seas
Or the broken spines of buildings drenched in sanguine pleas
Of the demolished, pitiful
Defenders of brooding earth.
But do not despair young Scipio!
Your tears need not plant themselves upon these sands
And sow these seeds of eventuality
Rise your Saber and shield, order the command
For the sake of love and power,
For the glory of your state
Be proud, you great Achilles, ye servant soldier clean,
Wash the blood beneath you, and give to them their deeds
These men who dared defy you, your presidential will,
The men who walked beside you, who suffered every ill
To them you make this pact, to them your will enact--
To them your curse betrays you, to kin and king exact.
