Whispers to Marcus Aurelius
(poetryrepairshop MM.01:007)
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Seems history will imprint you in gold: a good emperor, in a line of five: building schools, orphanages, hospitals; even slowed the red wheel of slavery for citizen, barbarian alike. But whom does your wife Faustina hold dear, when that 'Mother of the Camp' is a whore for the dusts of praetorian prefects? Her unctuous breath, and the winds I traverse, are born upon the same betraying breeze. And have you looked eastward, my emperor? For I am Plague, and I love the Stoics; I, who kiss your lips and blow out the lamp, Come downward to darkness, philosopher. Abandon Rome to a drunken mystic. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact its author) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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