Upon the Tiber’s sacred banks,
the black grape waters idly lap
like wine within a swirling cup,
the sleek and bloodied entrails spill
between my stiff and shaking hands
to roll and coil on sun baked dust.
I see a crown of laurels there,
all seeped in false and guilty tears,
and at its heart a bitter hate,
its innards twisted like this lamb.
The noblest Rom...
Thursday 21st February 2013 10:24 am