Dry your tears, dear Marcia
the world would have you weep in silence.
Console yourself with the counsel of men
who have not lost as you have lost.
Remember, Marcia, Rome is full of mothers
who have buried sons
your Metilius is but one name
in a long, forgettable line.
What virtue lies in mourning?
Let your grief not outlast the season’s turning,
nor mar the marble mask you wear.
Is it not noble, they say, to endure?
Grief is a guest who overstays,
and you, daughter of Cordus,
must show the city how stoic blood survives.
They speak with the gravity of those
who have never felt the weight
of a grave too small for the hopes you buried there
the laughter of a child stilled in the quiet halls,
the echo of a name erased by fever and fate.
Take heart, Marcia:
The Fates are never kind,
but neither do they listen.
Loss is the lot of all who live.
Do not shudder in the shadow,
rise above.
Let your mourning be brief,
and your tears tidied by the wisdom
of a world beyond you.