My lord you are gone.
My Lord you are gone.
Rome and all her minions
Are but dust in the house of death

Black birds wheel over the capital
And cry in the night sky
Jupiter weeps for us
We who have lost the great man.

I stand alone at my window
Calling out to heaven.
Why have you taken him
To dwell in Elysia across the river?

Father you have been
To a daughter who was not yours.
Friend and teacher and more.
Now gone to the gods.

The fires burns
The pyre blazes high in Mars field
Women tear their hair and wail
Men who have subdued the world can only weep.

People of Rome cry out.
For the man that is no more.
His life is now but ashes on the plain
And nothing but despair in the falling rain.

You are gone now and anticipation of your return from the East shall rush autumn into winter with prayers and offerings to the gods of spring. The city weeps in lamentation at the absence of her favored son. Black is the color of the brides and funerals are husband to the hearts that can not bear your absence. When death can find no hope with the coming of the snows, I shall stand firm upon the hill of Palatine looking south to a low-slung sun. There, leaning into the bitter wind in hopes that your face will fill in turn the circle of Apollo's orb. At last with the break of winter's ice and the rush of springs lush song I shall look to the sea for the return of the God.