For crowns that glitter and for phantom power,
the soul is cast into voracious flame;
to please unending greed, one walks an hour
between the paths of falsehood and of shame.
And Rome, heir to destruction’s crown,
with slaves made pure beneath the cross of pain,
amid the cries of pagan ravens’ sound,
embraced the law of death’s domain.
It donned the wreath of fallen might,
a pompous tomb of grief and pride,
and buried statesman-thought and father-right
in wilful tides of time denied.
Eternal Rome, toward the burning dawn,
with restless ache within the breast,
descended from its seven hills,
the sorrowed son of phantom quests.
From Byzantium’s forsaken gate,
from thresholds of imperial dream,
it turned toward the Orthodox East,
to seek again the primal stream.
And now, at history’s crossing road,
shall you behold the children’s fall?
Will genius born of victory’s code
redeem your fate — or doom you all
to chase once more elusive halls,
false palaces of hollow call?