The Warning of March

I
The morning climbed the marble steps of Rome,
while banners stirred above the waking square;
the city breathed the promise of command
in bronze and stone and voices in the air.
A leader walked beneath the rising light,
surrounded by the murmur of acclaim;
yet somewhere in the crowded Roman streets
a whisper waited, heavy with a name.

II
He moved with calm authority and pride,
a man accustomed to the weight of fate;
the Forum opened like a sea of eyes
that watched him pass the pillars of the state.
His victories were written on the world,
his shadow crossed the borders of the known;
and few believed the quiet voice of time
could shake the power seated on his throne.

III
Among the crowd an old and watchful man
stepped forward where the narrow roadway ran;
his eyes were filled with something more than age,
a solemn fire few others understand.
He lifted up his voice against the noise:
“Beware the Ides of March,” he softly cried.
The words fell like a stone upon the air,
yet pride walked on and let the warning slide.

IV
“Old man,” the leader said with easy smile,
“do shadows trouble you so much with fear?”
The prophet answered calmly from the crowd:
“The shadow of that day is drawing near.”
But laughter answered in the Roman street,
and pride dismissed the omen as a lie;
for men who hold the weight of empire’s will
rarely imagine they are born to die.

V
The days moved on beneath a patient sun,
and Rome returned to triumph and debate;
yet still the rumor wandered through the walls
like wind that hesitates beside a gate.
Some whispered of a danger yet unseen,
some mocked the trembling caution of the seer;
but power rarely listens to the wind
when glory sings too loudly in the ear.

VI
He once had crossed a river with a phrase
that history would never quite forget:
“The die is cast,” he said, and onward marched
where destiny and daring had been met.
Since then the world had bent beneath his will,
and kingdoms watched his rising like a star;
how could a passing voice among the crowds
predict a fate no sword had brought so far?

VII
Yet envy grows where power gathers light,
and quiet hands begin their careful art;
beneath the marble ceilings of the state
ambition sharpened iron in the heart.
Soft voices spoke of liberty and Rome,
of balance lost beneath a single name;
but in the folds of every noble word
a colder blade of treachery became.

VIII
At last the day arrived the prophet named—
the fifteenth morning carried March’s decree;
the sky stood bright above the Roman roofs
as calm as any day the world might see.
He walked again through streets that hailed his power
toward the Senate where the rulers meet;
and there he saw the old man in the crowd
who watched him pass along the crowded street.

IX
“Well then,” he said, half mocking as he paused,
“the Ides of March have come, as you foretold.”
The seer replied with steady voice and gaze,
“They come indeed—but they are not yet old.”
The words hung lightly in the morning air
like clouds that gather where the sun is clear;
yet pride stepped forward through the Senate doors
and left the echo trembling in the ear.

X
The chamber closed around him like a tide
of robes and voices wrapped in courtesy;
the marble floor reflected quiet steps
that moved like whispers through a silent sea.
Then suddenly the stillness split in steel—
a flash of iron where no storm had been;
and hands once raised in greeting turned to blades
that wrote their verdict deep upon the skin.

XI
The leader staggered through a storm of blows,
astonishment within his fading breath;
the statues of the ancient conquerors
looked down in silent witness to his death.
The prophecy returned like distant thunder
that no proud laughter now could cast aside;
for even men who master half the world
must meet the patient reckoning of the Ides.

XII
Thus ended Rome’s most brilliant rising star
beneath the daggers of the Senate hall;
the warning spoken softly in the street
proved stronger than the might that once ruled all.
For on that day the empire learned too late
what pride refused to hear before the fall—
the man who mocked the Ides of March that dawn
was Julius Caesar, greatest once of all.