Pompeii

I still think of the running lava,
the hot pool of igneous rock,
the molten orange with the golden trimmings,

every bit flowing,
like eternity,
downslope.

Do people feared it,
do dogs barked in premonition,
do bird flew to far away branches?

Who knew the land could tremble in rage,
become a river of fire,
engulf trees and roads and flesh.

Dream it Delfos did not,
forecasting is a heart's business,
no alignement in the heavenly lights to tell.

But I am sure someone stood still.
Already Epictetus had read Seneca,
and Seneca had read Zeno.

The lone stoic,
facing the unfaceable.