2026-07-28
In Carthage when the boy was nine, He laid both hands upon the fire, And swore as if the words were wine The oath that fed his life entire. And Tanit whispered on the wind, That walks at night above the Tiber, And no one woke, and no one dinned, And Rome dreamed on with dread inside her. The night was black on Baal Hammon, Whose temple wore a golden dome, That burned as if the dark were famine And it the only bread for Rome. ... Before the field by the river filled WIth all the eagles of Rome's array, His captain counted, his captain paled And asked how they would win the day. Count on he said, til counting's done And mark this wonder stranger still, Of all those thousands there's not one Who bears the name of Gisgo still. The laughter ran from line to line As if the oath itself had smiled, For even fire can be kind To those it long ago beguiled. ... Helas! The Gods most marked by cunning Lean down and quench their burning dome, They rake the Earth and burn the bones, Kick down the tablet where the words once said in stone: My name is Barca I'm at the gate, This place a marker Where three times eight Cold cohorts of men at arms Put axe to orchard and torch to farm. And Tanit whispered on the wind, That walks at night above the Tiber, And Rome woke up, and all had sinned And nothing more was left inside her.