“‘Life was good to me,’ the man said. ‘When you appeared in my dream,
I felt that all my efforts had been rewarded, because my son’s poems will be read by men for generations to come.
I don’t want anything for myself. But any father would be proud of the fame achieved by one whom he had cared for as a child,
and educated as he grew up. Sometime in the distant future, I would like to see my son’s words.’
The angel touched the man’s shoulder, and they were both projected far into the future.
They were in an immense setting, surrounded by thousands of people speaking a strange language.
The man wept with happiness. “‘I knew that my son’s poems were immortal,’ he said to the angel through his tears.
‘Can you please tell me which of my son’s poems these people are repeating?’
The angel came closer to the man, and, with tenderness, led him to a bench nearby, where they sat down.
“‘The verses of your son who was the poet were very popular in Rome,’ the angel said.
Everyone loved them and enjoyed them. But when the reign of Tiberius ended, his poems were forgotten.
The words you’re hearing now are those of your son in the military.’
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