The executioner’s hand descends on his
shoulder
“This can’t be! This cannot be it!” Seneca
whispers
Aware of death’s descending specter.
Outside, the moonless night streams on
And Rome lives on. And for a moment
He struggles for a comment,
But keeps his peace. It is the end. The philosopher’s
Attempt negates that which he ponders,
Perhaps the doubts, perhaps the fear, when
Witnessing the demise of some Christian
In the Circus, where, obedient to Caesar’s
desires,
He remained silent. Now, as he shuts his eyes,
He sees in a flash his own enormous deceit,
yet,
Remains silent. It is too late. Time to depart.
Henrik Edoyan
1993
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
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