EMYR HUMPHRIES.
The Ancestor Worship Cycle
lll) A Roman Dream.
The Dust of the chariot race is in my hair.
I hide under the laurel bush like a piece of silver.
The guards use ferrets and before dawn they will find me.
Last night the Emperor painted his face green,
We all agreed this was the correct colour.
I was a little drunk. I agreed too much.
His god-like gaze discovered me,
An academic working on his uncle's prose.
I have long admired your style, he said,
But recently I find it makes the content suspect.
Come with me.
With green lips he kissed the short sword
And put it in my hands.
With green hands, he exposed the prisoner's ribs,
An unknown prisoner whose face he said
For my sake had been covered.
Here he said smiling. Here. Between the third and fourth ribs
Push.
Push.
Whose was the face beneath the napkin?
Push.
I wish to be loved by all men
I have spent fifteen hours a day
On odes to be admired
In addition to my academic work
My research
My teaching duties.
Push
My contributions to enlightened journals
On the balance of ambition and duty to the state
On the national content of the Imperial dream
On human dignity
Push
On precision in syntax
On language, truth and logic
Push
His royal hand, soft and perfumed, closed over mine
With childlike suddenness pushing
The warm blood hit my face
Sounds came from my throat like vomit
The faces of gods are green, he said not red.
Would you agree?
I nodded and I nodded.
Will you die for me?
I don't care what you choose but make the choice your own
Fall on this sword like a Roman
Or swallow poison like a talkative Greek...
The air was cold as marble.
The green god was bored.
Or run to hiding like a rabbit and my guards will hunt you...
If I could get to the hills
Somewhere in Tuscolo beneath my teacher's ruined villa
There is a hiding place and a secret spring.
If I could find the strength to make the journey
There is dry blood on my lips
The dust of the chariot race is in my hair.
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