Passing through the old city gate A relic that reminds of greater times Dwarfed by ugliness and short-sightedness Not one tree, column or veranda. The monochrome mundaneness Model dwellings for a new slave batch The Vandals call it art and progression All art these days is propaganda. There are quickening power flows Furtively converging to form empire One dynasty must be pitched against another And ultimately become subsumed. The last Roman looks towards the west So it begins - renovatio imperii For if not beauty is restored Then cause is lost and men are doomed. In robes dyed with Tyrian Purple A vast army will pass through the gate And in the wake a legion of builders And sailors from Rome's mighty fleets. Whitewashed to reflect the midday sun The defiled relics will shine once more A blue sky horizon for the playful child That skips along the tree-lined streets.