Cicero on the Rostra

The flies buzz above the decaying hands,
Whose subtle fingers once etched the republic’s last defense.
The noble head, with pin pierced tongue, demands the shame of the shameless.

In the street, the city dweller only faintly knows
– and only faintly cares –
That democracy decomposes on this warm, sunny, day.

How can it be?
How can man leave liberty rotting upon the altar of the people?
As thugs take power and honor disintegrates into dirt.

Life is busy and time is fleeting.
The worker must work, and the parents must parent.
And in the face of such forces, who among us can stop the tide?

So the world moves on, as nobility molders in the baking sun.
For among the citizenry there is no hope of temporal salvation,
And no orator left to give voice to resistance.

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