— Shining in the ceremonial sun.
The war is over, the fighting done,
The Celdons and Maehati dead,
The Artocatti’s blood has bled.
Our wall still stands, but in all faith
Most think it now is just a wraith
That leads to war-abiding lands.
For all that, the wall still stands,
A collection of abandoned forts
That weep as whispers fill the courts
With doom and dread. It is too late,
They say, to carry on or to create
A land; a home. Our day is done,
They say. We are the fading hegemon
Within whose sword no burning flame
Feeds theories like to win the game.
In Christen-, free-, and king-, no dom.
All that remains, the cingulum.