Icci Beatus... Poem by Morgan Michaels

Now it's the spoils of Araby you'll be after
Icci, once, that is, you conquer
the Saban kings and bring the
fierce Mede to heel.

What tearful bride, steeped in her husband's gore
will Romewards be led, your concubine?
What pretty page with lemon-scented
hair will draw your wine?

himself taught secretly to fire
Serican arrows from his own sire's bow? So,
Spanish irons supplant Socrates' inquiries and
the storied tomes of Paneatius;

you, of all people, Icci! So, we shall now,
contrary to use, see mountain rills slacken
and reverse course, and Tiber himself, no less,
flow backward to the source?


Horace I: 29