Constantine XI

—May 29, 1453

And he was never seen on this earth again,

having rushed forward with sword raised

toward the crowd of Turks boiling through

the breach in the wall, after first casting off

his crown and purple robes, so to be taken

for a common soldier and thrown down

in a common grave, buried with the others

to keep the enemy from parading his head

proudly through the cities of their empire,

this being his only choice—The city has

fallen and I remain alive.—last of the last,

God’s representative on earth, ruling

a fragment of a city, still the seat of Rome

after eleven centuries, his army just a sliver

the size of the enemy’s hundred thousand,

some of his soldiers being priests, slaves,

shopkeepers, even women, still protecting

a scrapheap, once the richest, largest, and

most beautiful, to be sacked for three days,

universities destroyed, libraries destroyed,

palaces and churches, schools and gardens,

citizens hunted down and slaughtered.

What alternative but to rush forward?

Remember him when your time comes.