I’m rooted to one fixed and central spot;
the continent revolves around me. Here
I lie, ignored perhaps – or maybe lost in thought –
and mostly quiet. Once or twice a year
you might remember me – although it’s likely
you’ll get confused and think me one of my
young relatives (who both look nothing like me),
but I don’t mind: I’ll smile as you pass by.
For I remember pomp, dominion, sway –
begat in war, maintained by war, by war
eroded, then consumed. There comes a day
for cutting losses, resting limbs, and for
reclining on grass, cares in peace dissolving,
serenely watching nebulæ revolving.