Sing we for the finest times,
For memories of tree-lined hills –
O’er fields lay strewn of flowers gold,
Ensconced, we are composed.
Cannonades of thunder rolling
From the harbinger to be –
Sing we for forgotten promise
In the chorus of the sea.
Lay we bare to face the mountain,
And our faith is probably
Between the shattered countryside
Once you were the Tragic Poet,
Plunged in depths of travesty,
Plunged in sanguine dreams unspoken –
Paved in stones of misery.
Sing we for the season’s harvest:
Augustus flames on Antony –
A chorus to Apollo’s glory
Echoes soft eternally.
You stood brave where I stand broken,
The pumice roads intone:
A shadow of the angry mountain –
Montis alt, I’m coming home.