“Et tu, Brute?” Caesar asks Brutus,
As he beholds the familiar facade
Of his dear friend and protégé,
Marcus Junius Brutus.
Oh, what folly it was to even believe
That people stick to their role
And that masks do not fall off their face!
Caesar, trudging along the way,
Near the infamous Theatre of Pompey,
On that national day of recompense,
Was startled, briefly;
Then, disenchanted, abruptly,
As he realized the disheartening betrayal
By his beloved Brutus–
An esteemed ally, a sworn disciple of his.
“Why, oh why?” was his paltry lament–
A most ponderous weight settles
In his dying, gullible heart
While another companion proves to be
Another traitor in disguise.
Ah, what existence this has become,
He declares, when a man may be reduced
To utter zilch and complete perfidy
By those he so trusted and loved.
Thus, our Julius Caesar, a renowned leader
Of ancient history, was put to death
By the hands of another brother.
“Et tu, Brute?” his echoed cry, indeed.