The Seer of Carthage

[Mark Cecil]

The city in full festive spirit bustles
Its foreign tongues express exotic speech
and men are clothed in strange outlandish dress
where goods and money change tight clutching hands

Yet I am lying down with face looking up
I hear a whisper, faintly in my head
declaring: Carthage will fall from its height
to crushed waste where vultures eat the dead

No more will people walk the city streets
the Marketplace devoid of all its stock
no chatter heard or clunking wooden carts
no children play or go around about

An eerie sound of silence will reside
with only whispers heard of men deceased.
I scream and bellow curses to the gods
for bringing wrath upon this city now

My lungs inside me burn, my head is numb
from top to toe, I shake ceaselessly
my fragile frame now crippled by a dread
that some inferno will consume my soul

I long that gods would come and smite me down
by slicing wide this punic heart of mine
that I may stoop and sleep with fallen men
before eyes are casted upon this city’s fall

My noisy cries and shouts go heavenward
then twenty eyes now peel before my shape
their faces morph into the gods of Baal
ready to bring their judgement over me

I’m lying down in mud condemned by them
yet as the sun’s rays gleam down from above
I long redemption’s wings would lift me up
And Carthage would be spared its ruined fate

Yet Death is now beside me where he waits
with his sickle now hanging over me
foretasting poisoned fruit from hand decayed
I am ensnared in his demonic trance

I ask for one to end my suffering
to smother me now with a pillow case
or squeeze my throat with hands together clenched
but no one there responds to my request

Then by the powerful hands of the gods
I break out of my hellish trance and sing
for death my source of fear has drifted away
like shadows of a passing cloud above

I now turn heavenward and thank the gods
for sparing me and the great capital
which although may decline in glory yet
I pray it shall see better days ahead