The Serpent Who Thought It Was an Eagle
The Fall of an Empire
In the elder days, when hills still spoke and rivers still sang, a city of seven hills was born. Its people were bold and hungry. They fought their neighbors, and when their neighbors were gone, they fought their neighbors’ neighbors.
Hunger became their creed. The more they ate, the more they craved. They called this hunger strength.
In time they gave their hunger a symbol: a great Eagle. They named it Rome, and they said: “See how perfect we are!” But behind that symbol, hidden from all but the gods, the true soul of Rome was Ouroboros, the serpent that devours itself. The eagle was only a mask, meant to confuse and beguile others.
To prove themselves, they raised high walls and set their rulers upon marble seats. From there, the rulers cried:
Only Rome’s tongue shall be spoken.
Only Rome’s rites shall be honored.
Only Rome’s might shall be obeyed.
Only Romans are worthy of being free.
And the serpent tightened its coil. Those who bent the knee were spared but never embraced. Those who resisted were broken and swallowed whole. Fields grew bare where legions marched. Forests fell silent where axes sang. Rivers ran red with the blood of tribute. Flags flew above lands that had lost their gods. The serpent swallowed everything it touched, and Rome claimed it all as its own, until it seemed there was nothing left outside its circle. Yet inside the circle, hunger still gnawed. Power demands its own fuel, and Rome began to feed upon itself. The patrician devoured the plebeian, the master devoured the slave, the rich devoured the poor. And the storytellers began to whisper:
“Power must eat itself, it cannot stand. True power comes from embracing, not tightening one’s coils.” The gods turned away. The spirit of the Tiber refused to cleanse the city’s filth. The goddess of the forest mourned the stumps of fallen groves. The god of grain withheld his gift, for there was no balance left in Rome’s circle. Cracks spread across the marble. The serpent’s body coiled tighter, but its own teeth tore deeper. On the day of collapse, the rulers lifted their voices to proclaim eternity. But their words were lost in the sound of the serpent’s bones breaking. Rome the Ouroboros writhed upon its hills, devouring itself until nothing remained but dust, chains, and broken idols. Out from the ruins walked the peoples. They carried their old tongues, their old gods, and their old ways. They looked upon the empty coil and said: “Never again shall one circle consume the world. Let us weave many circles, each joining the next, like rings of a chain.” She of the Heartlands, Mother of Earth, opened her arms and said: “Your circles may join our roads.”
She of the Isles, who dances upon the seas, lifted her voice and said: “Your gods may join our festivals.”
She of the Great Rivers bent low and said: “Your waters may flow into ours.”
In Āryāvarta, Compassion itself spoke: “Your circle may widen without breaking.”
From the East, Harmony answered: “Your circles may turn without collision.”
And from the lands of maize and sun, Renewal whispered: “Your cycles may return, not to devour, but to begin again.”
Together they wove circles that touched but did not consume one another. They remembered the fate of the Romans, and none devoured the rest. And so the serpent is remembered as a warning. Where once it was painted as eternal, it is now carved in broken rings, a tale for children and a lesson for rulers: Power must eat itself, it cannot stand. True power comes from embracing, not tightening one’s coils.
Only Rome’s rites shall be honored.
Only Rome’s might shall be obeyed.
Only Romans are worthy of being free.
And the serpent tightened its coil. Those who bent the knee were spared but never embraced. Those who resisted were broken and swallowed whole. Fields grew bare where legions marched. Forests fell silent where axes sang. Rivers ran red with the blood of tribute. Flags flew above lands that had lost their gods. The serpent swallowed everything it touched, and Rome claimed it all as its own, until it seemed there was nothing left outside its circle. Yet inside the circle, hunger still gnawed. Power demands its own fuel, and Rome began to feed upon itself. The patrician devoured the plebeian, the master devoured the slave, the rich devoured the poor. And the storytellers began to whisper:
“Power must eat itself, it cannot stand. True power comes from embracing, not tightening one’s coils.” The gods turned away. The spirit of the Tiber refused to cleanse the city’s filth. The goddess of the forest mourned the stumps of fallen groves. The god of grain withheld his gift, for there was no balance left in Rome’s circle. Cracks spread across the marble. The serpent’s body coiled tighter, but its own teeth tore deeper. On the day of collapse, the rulers lifted their voices to proclaim eternity. But their words were lost in the sound of the serpent’s bones breaking. Rome the Ouroboros writhed upon its hills, devouring itself until nothing remained but dust, chains, and broken idols. Out from the ruins walked the peoples. They carried their old tongues, their old gods, and their old ways. They looked upon the empty coil and said: “Never again shall one circle consume the world. Let us weave many circles, each joining the next, like rings of a chain.” She of the Heartlands, Mother of Earth, opened her arms and said: “Your circles may join our roads.”
She of the Isles, who dances upon the seas, lifted her voice and said: “Your gods may join our festivals.”
She of the Great Rivers bent low and said: “Your waters may flow into ours.”
In Āryāvarta, Compassion itself spoke: “Your circle may widen without breaking.”
From the East, Harmony answered: “Your circles may turn without collision.”
And from the lands of maize and sun, Renewal whispered: “Your cycles may return, not to devour, but to begin again.”
Together they wove circles that touched but did not consume one another. They remembered the fate of the Romans, and none devoured the rest. And so the serpent is remembered as a warning. Where once it was painted as eternal, it is now carved in broken rings, a tale for children and a lesson for rulers: Power must eat itself, it cannot stand. True power comes from embracing, not tightening one’s coils.
Song to Ouroboros
Ouroboros, who flew so high,Did you taste the blood and ash?
Did you care for the rivers dry,
Or the fields you turned to trash?
Ouroboros, your wings were stone,
Your hunger fire, your heart was pride.
You swallowed the world and called it your own,
But your teeth found your tail, and you died.
But fear not — from your bones the flowers grew,
The rivers ran clear, the sky turned blue.
The trees rose tall to the heavens’ span,
And circles were woven by child and clan.
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