It Does Not Hurt

It Does Not Hurt
Her face seemed to be the visage of determination personified
Her eyes, hallow and stern, betrayed only by a lonely tear
Her love stares at her, the eyes of the traitor, bewildered and aghast
Her love stares at her, the heart of the husband, overcome with guilt
With a knife wrenched deep into her heart, her courage remains unscathed
Unwavering resolve, she gasps and grits her teeth, then whispers to her love, “Paete, non dolet”
(Paetus, it does not hurt)

Suicide is only honorable for a traitor of Rome
As Paetus, conspirator against Claudius, should well know
Yet in his cage he sits, resting comfortably upon his coward’s throne
Arria his love, Arria his wife, silent in her mourning
Not over crimes long past, but over dignity long abandoned
Suicide is the only redemption for a traitor of Rome

Blood trickled silently from her lips to the floor, the tears of her weeping heart
Mourning now on the deaf ears of her twilight’s remorse
Her bloody countenance shattering his will, he watches in rigid shock
She hands him in the knife, her hands remained steady yet his fearfully trembled
He grasped her hand tight, Arria his beacon of courage, illuminating his plunge into darkness
Two fates forever intertwined, one soul sacrificed, one soul redeemed