(Or: “Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?”)

I waded in the sea when the great fire raged

and gazed at the purple belt of Orion,

too far to hear the cries of the first brigade

and the deeds of Ofonius and his men.

My wife had whispered in my ear too late: flames

like wild horses circling the poet’s hill

scattered across the gardens of Mæcenas,

idling only when the winds grew still.

Yet I rode swiftly past the burning tower,

far above the embers on the Palatine–

I sang to my children in their woeful hour,

moved by Lucan’s tongue and Seneca’s mien

to comfort every orphan in the Field of Mars

and avenge their naked grief beneath the stars.