“Bread crumbs”(perhaps how you got here)

Cincinnatus

 Sun, Nov 8, 2009

© J W Durham

Citizens and Senators,
They came to him and wailed out their fear,
So Cincinnatus laid aside his plow and buckled on his sword;
Then he led the Roman Army and saved the Roman State.
When he was done they cheered his valor,
Offered gifts and proffered honors.
But his heart was old and wise,
So he smiled and walked away alone to his cottage home,
Wanting nought for what he’d done,
You see, he had a greater fear,
That, holding on to power, he would become another kind of man,
Someone bronzed and hollow,
Or perhaps that Rome itself would become another sort of nation,
Something strong and stupid.

So does history tell, at least the history we are taught in school.
There are, of course, dissenting views, the work of fools, unpatriotic thugs.
They tell how Cincinnatus had with bitter skill fought the tribunes of the people;
His son had kept the lawful officers from meeting as was their duty.
When the son fled from wrathful Rome, the father had to pay his fine.
The penalty was why Cincinnatus, once a wealthy man,
Was living in a thatched hut, plowing his field to feed his family,
When fickle Rome begged his leadership.
Sixteen days he used to win his victory,
Then tender back the symbols of his office.
This much the legend tells, as every schoolchild knows.
But what you rarely hear is how for more than twenty years he carried on the fight
Against the common folk and against the laws of Rome.

Might makes right, after all.
And History has made this man a hero,
Well, the customary story does,
Most others having been locked away where children cannot see.
So after all, dissenting views of Cincinnatus cower in the dusty corner, mostly mute.
Some seventy generations have come and gone, and the Official Truth lives on.
History is the mother, we are told, of mighty heroes and their brothers.
I agree.
Such brothers are rich in pride and full of power.
You want the name of siblings such as these?
Every mighty hero, victor of a war or master of some giant project, has such a brother.
His name is Lies.

Oh, and alone the humble man and quiet is another sort of hero, the opposite of Cincinnatus,
And he dwells below,
In a dungeon that he delved, then walled himself inside.
There he eats the bread of death,
And lays his head upon a pillow made of moldy memories
and is wrapped within a scanty blanket that he wove himself and once was damp with tears.
This wretched fool is not alone,
But for punishment has been given the most troublesome of cell-mates,
Another resident of those dungeons made by common laborers.
He and she are chained together, never to escape.
She is not Philosophy, though that possibility was considered by the God of Public Favor.
Instead, the judges, knowing well who pays the bills,
Gave this lowly rascal someone that he will always fear to kiss,
For her name is Truth.

 All text on this page is the work of J W Durham and is licensed only under terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Other licensing terms may be available. E-mail me