The view from above

Rise above the body. Above the room, the city, the campaign. Watch the Empire from the height of eagles- see how thin the border really is. The Senate chamber shrinks to a pale dot. The battlefield becomes a smear of brown. The river that we fought for — just a line drawn by water, not by any god or crown.



Now higher still-above the clouds, above the known. The earth is small. Your grief is smaller.



From above, the wars are silent. From above, the names dissolve. From above, the only motion is the turning -slow, enormous-of it all. This is not despair. This is the cure.



How many Caesars has the sun outlasted? How many empires has the moon ignored? The stars were old before the first word "Rome" was spoken by a mouth beside a fire. We are the latest version of the brief. We will be followed, and then we will be gone. And the view from above will be the same-indifferent, vast, and terribly serene.



From above, the wars are silent. From above, the names dissolve. From above, the only motion is the turning — slow, enormous-of it all.