by Nick Gisburne
When Marcus and Marcellus, both, were born,
They played as boys, and vowed to fight as men,
Until the day the two of them were sworn
To serve, no matter where, or why, or when.
Allegiance to the cities of their birth
Condemned them both to see their brother’s blood
As wicked, without virtue, without worth,
Insufferable smudges in the mud.
They sit in silence, dying, like the light,
And recognise, in mourning, what was lost.
Their vitriol evaporates. The night
Is ready now to calculate the cost.
The butchery of bloodshed is revealed
When brother faces brother on the field.
