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The broken bowls of vanished souls are scattered;
These treasures to these Romans surely mattered
When last they trod this earth in flesh and blood,
Yet now they mingle with their bones in mud.
Across two thousand years gazes each face;
Of fear of coming tragedy no trace,
But tenuous and transient is power
And few predict when comes the final hour.
Oโ€™er time great empires wax then wane in turn,
And all their spoils back to the soil return.