Text: THE LAST NIGHT OF TROY In the grand nightmare of Troy falling, gods' fists battering at the walls they built, agile fire leaping from rooftop to rooftop to lick each household with its venomous tongue,
do not forget Aeneas, who, bold beyond any sane calculation, slips through back alleys with child and father in tow, while refugees gather at his heels, a trickling rivulet of hope.
The harbor awaits. The sea awaits. Distant Italy conceals a seed. At his god-favored touch it will burst into an oak unbounded by earth or sky.
(Forgive me for posting my own poetry; I know it's not to everyone's taste. But writing this helped me to some extent to work through my feelings, and I hope it may be helpful to others as well.)