Chronicles Of The Return

After the zombies ruined my breakfast this morning I decided I should recite the few remaining outside my window some poetry:

We All Must Die, by Horace:

Alas, dear friend, the fleeting years
In everlasting circles run,
In vain you spend your vows and prayers,
They roll, and ever will roll on.

Should zombies each rising morn
On cruel Pluto’s altar dye,
Should costly loads of incense burn,
Their fumes ascending to the sky:

You could not gain a moment’s breath
Or move the haughty ghoul below
Nor would inexorable death
Defer an hour the fatal blow.

In vain we shun the din of war,
And terrors of the stormy main,
In vain with anxious breasts we fear
Unwholesome Zombie’s sultry reign;

We all must view the Stygian flood
That silent cuts the dreary plains,
And Cruel Solanum’s bloody brood
Condemned to everduring pains.

Your shady groves, your pleasing wife,
And fruitful fields, my dearest friend,
You’ll leave together with your life:
Alone the cypress

After your death, the lavish heir
Will quickly drive away his woe;
The wine you kept with so much care
Along the marble floor shall flow.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, February 2nd, 2010 at 12:06 pm and is filed under Never Ending Narrative. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.