Sunday, February 1, 2015


“The Death of Spartacus” by Hermann Vogel (1882)
I am

Hear now, Historia, notion to

faithfully write of a Hero, with

language befitting your pages, with

meter befitting the subject – a

man who opposed stood to tyrants as

Moses opposed stood to pharaoh, as

Spartacus 'posed stood to senate – this

pen guide, however imperfect. Mere

verses, a song now of Andrew – a

warrior happy and loyal to

Liberty's Song of our Morning, to

Us without Representation, to

Us the leviathan shackled for

sake of a ruling class royal, to

Us the new heirs of Aeneas, to

Freedom again for this nation. He

battled the enemy fearlessly;

laughed at their venom and power: he

battled the agents of soros, he

battled the minions of piven, he

battled the media biased, he

battled the ivory tower, he

battled the cowards established – re-

lentlessly Andrew was driven. He

suffered the slings and the arrows. He

suffered the marxist invective. Con-

sidered them badges of honor; re-

sponded with mirth and derision, en-

raging the ruling class further be-

cause he was so damned effective: in-

spiring millions to battle a-

gainst Constitution's rescission. Un-

til he collapsed on a sidewalk, a-

lone in the darkness of midnight. He

never awakened thereafter and

quietly passed in the morning. Some

say that he died of exhaustion: the

toll of political street fight; some

say that a hand in the shadows put

end to his ruling class warning. Re-

gardless, he died for our Freedom, a

morning he won't be perceiving – as

promised land Moses saw never. Re-

gardless, he died in our battle, a

Hero of our fair Republic, an

honor he won't be receiving from

ruling class thinking us servile – as

senate thought Spartacus chattel. A

life that's well lived can be measured by

legacy, influence, meaning: a

bounty that Death can not sickle, an

afterlife here with the living, a

promise the torch will be carried on

after the mourning and keening, and

Andrew left gift that our ruling class

could not prevent him from giving. Mere

verses, a song now of Andrew, a

toast to him – tea and a dram:

“Hear now, Historia, millions of

voices shout, ‘Andrew?... I am!’”