Rome

Dull centurion, genitor,
I’m tired of your dire gates,
The journeys East, the plums and dates,
I can not fight your sunset war.
And you, Cleopatra from New York,
Can keep my broken sword, my spears,
And you can keep my Roman tears
With all the Latin. Look: the stork
Is flying East, he seems like hope,
The winds he rides are clear and fresh;
The incense and the ancient flesh
Are swept away in fists of smoke,
Our conquests fade, and on their plain
The grass is washed by gentle rain.