The moon was in full bloom
The night Julius Caesar died.

Fourteen pools of red,
The moon did tinge
Their hue.

It burns me now,
To think how the history books will not speak of
The way his eyes
Were so distant
As they closed.
How those eyes always remained gazing
At something far away
The rest of us could not
See.

It knives me!
Somewhere below the chest,
To think how the history books will never speak of
His last sight:

Twisted faces with bared teeth,
Rising from clean fog.

And I weep to say now,
The history books
Will not say how the moon was in
Full bloom
The night Julius Caesar died.

They will not mention the moon
Not even once.