The weather is lazy today, never the animals that it girds.
I feel that not even the wind wants to farewell July.
But here comes Augustus,
an emperor trapped by sevens,
protected by praetorian guards.
Born in September, the seventh month by that time;
born thirty seven years before Jesus, the monthless Jew,
Augustus died in the sixth, Sextilis —
isn't mortality a sexually transmissible disease?
It was, and so Sextilis was renamed after him,
who was by then a deity.
Surely his father was deadly serious
when he named him Gaius —
the glad one, the oldfashioned gay —
and the eighth — Octavius.
Augustus is also the beginning of the great decline
as perceived by the local European:
The days being stubbornly warm,
they fail increasingly to survive
the last hours.
And so did the empire he left,
a gift of murdered Julius who,
making him his heir,
gave him the right to expand
the humble name to Gaius Julius
Caesar! And the empire.
What a mark you left in history,
you mighty antagonist of
a daughter named Julia.
Pax Augusta to your soul.
Therefore to live is a lucky seven.
Eight, to pass away.
