Each morning when he awakes
Fuscus fetches his armor,
Dutifully, as each and every time
Then, now, like any soldier.

Then his eyes look over the field on which
Rocks and trees, arrows and stones lay
Ordered in a way so difficult to understand
Still the same, after so many years.

The actant of an eternal ritual
Looking at his harsh hands, he comes
And stone by stone, rock by rock
He carefully places them where they belong in the mountain.

And with every stone, every log
Another comrade shows himself from behind the clouds
And Fuscus heart beats faster and faster
While his soul mourns for them.

Confident and fiery he carves his steps in the stones
Up and down and going up and down again
With his back bending,
His brow almost touching the earth.

The dacians are used to his presence
They almost do not mind him,
They are as he is wandering shadows on a battlefield
Living their drama until the dusk.

One winter they gave him a warm fur
To cover his body against the cold.
And they gave him a wood mace carved with ancestral signs
To be helpful on his never-ending path.

And so tries Fuscus to rebuild his dream
With every stone he gives back to the mountain
The legion comes back to life and with their shields raised
They hail, friendly salute him.

In the evening they gather there, strange shadows
All those with whom he had began his journey
And others come whom he doesnt even know
Form his legion or maybe from Tettiuss.

As in a perpetual legend everything is placed and settled
And each morning it begins again
A different Sisyphus here in the Valley of Cerna,
The hero of a myth which he did not trust while being alive.

Only one vision remains when in the evening
He sits down tired and looks at the horizon
Far away, from Ulpia to Forum, upon the scattered ruins
Till the church made up from of them from Densus.

There, sitting still on the walls,
With the cup in his hand
Longinus is drinking his poison
Brought by a messenger from Trajan.