Twas you yourself Great Caesar, made the claim,
To be as fix’d as that Northern star,
About which all others, for’er remain,
In diligent, unchanging, honored ark,
Across this sky that long has been your own,
And under which your deeds outweigh all men,
Yet in your final pledge to win the throne,
Twas blades that give these words deliverance.
I ask then, upon this would you suppose,
When not of flesh and blood you claimed to be,
Was it the sword now crimson, or the prose,
That rendered ceaseless death, reality?
For now you are as fix’d as the grave,
Twas you yourself Great Caesar, made the claim.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem