“Do not disturb my circles,” said the man,
His old beard wagging, tickling his old hand.
“Do not disturb my thoughts—I know they can—
I know they’ll be the salvation of this land.”
He bent over his knees, scratching on sand.
The soldier, sword-raised: “Save your orisons.”
The old man eyed him. “A crude blade,” said he:
“Crude in conception, crude in proportion.”
“It’s efficient,” growled the soldier, impatient.
“Yes,” mused the old man, “but what is it
Compared with your towers, your batt’ring rams?
And what are they, compared to what I did?
Our claws—I s’pose you’ve seen them—what a sham
They make of your towers, crumbling at the slam
Of stones above, and that grasping metal hand
That pitched your ships head-first into the deep—
As farmers pitch strong poles into the land—
Flound’ring like fishes on hot Sicilian sand.
Even your general acknowledged our might.
I know what he said: ‘He uses our ships
To ladle water from the sea.’ Not quite;
Rather, say it’s the hand of god, who delights
In ladling Roman blood into his cup of night.
Have you seen Rome’s fate in the blinding glare
Of my Mirror on the ancient city walls?
Like your Cato, yet unlike him, I dare
Declare: ‘Roma delenda est.’ Beware!”