from Bring Roses and Cardamom by Horace

Whether we descend from the great houses,
Or drift unprotected under the naked
Sky, it’s all one; we are sacrifices
To Death, not well known for compassion.

We are obliged and herded. The lot is
Inside the urn; the ball with our number
Will roll out. And what we’ll get
Is an everlasting absence from home.

translated by Robert Bly

8 thoughts on “from Bring Roses and Cardamom by Horace

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