when he awakes
fetches his armor,
as each and every time
now, like any soldier.
eyes look over the field on which
and trees, arrows and stones lay
in a way so difficult to understand
the same, after so many years.
of an eternal ritual
at his harsh hands, he comes
stone by stone, rock by rock
carefully places them where they belong in the mountain.
every stone, every log
comrade shows himself from behind the clouds
Fuscus heart beats faster and faster
his soul mourns for them.
and fiery he carves his steps in the stones
and down and going up and down again
his back bending,
brow almost touching the earth.
are used to his presence
almost do not mind him,
are as he is wandering shadows on a battlefield
their drama until the dusk.
they gave him a warm fur
cover his body against the cold.
they gave him a wood mace carved with ancestral signs
be helpful on his never-ending path.
And so tries
Fuscus to rebuild his dream
every stone he gives back to the mountain
legion comes back to life and with their shields raised
hail, friendly salute him.
In the evening
they gather there, strange shadows
those with whom he had began his journey
others come whom he doesnt even know
his legion or maybe from Tettiuss.
As in a perpetual
legend everything is placed and settled
each morning it begins again
Sisyphus here in the Valley of Cerna,
hero of a myth which he did not trust while being alive.
vision remains when in the evening
sits down tired and looks at the horizon
away, from Ulpia to Forum, upon the scattered ruins
the church made up from of them from Densus.
still on the walls,
the cup in his hand
is drinking his poison
by a messenger from Trajan.