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| Original | Translation |
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Poetry |
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Horace and the Thunder
after Horace, Odes, I,
34 |
Παρ³σΗαλΑ »υ αραοΑ
Παρ³σΗαλ«
Άαν»ρ·« I« 34 |
| Anything can
happen. You know
how Jupiter will mostly wait for clouds to gather head before he hurls the lightning? Well, just now, he galloped his thunder-cart and his horses |
Ίν
Ηέγ»ρ ³λ»λ« αρ γ»έ ε³ο³ΡΗ£ ΆΗο»±λ
ΪαυεΗο»ρέ Ηέγε»λ Ώ λε³λαυΩ« αρ Γ³χ Ρ³ν³ω»έ ³Ωε»ρέ αυ σ³λαυΩ« Ρ»οα Ώ ΩΗ³Ϋέ Ο³ΫΝ³ΟΑ ½³ρΟαυΩ£ ξ»λ³±ρ ωΗγ ³ι³η Ηέγε»λ ω³ι³οραχ έ³ λαυρ³σ-³έσ³ν Ηρ Ο³ΫΝ³Ο-Ο³ιωαν |
| across a clear blue
sky. It
shook the earth and the clogged underearth, the River Styx, the winding streams, the Atlantic shore itself. Anything can happen, the tallest things |
σ»ρ»Ον³
Ο³εαυΫο« ³έ³Ωε »ρΟέωαν£ ςέσν»σ »ρΟΗρΑ«
σέσν»σ Ο³Ι³έν³Ν έρ³ ΑέΉ»ρωΑ« Λιανν»σ κοΗωλΑ αυ αΙαρ-ΩαΙαρ Ω³έρ ·»ο»ρΑ« σέσν»σ ³έ·³Ω ³οΙ³έοΫ³έ ³χΑ£ Ίν Ηέγ»ρ ³λ»λ« αρ γ»έ ε³ο³ΡΗ« »ρΟΗέω ΛαΫ³σ³Ν ΡλΟ³ Ι»ιέ»ρΑ |
| be overturned, those in high
places daunted, those overlooked esteemed. Stropped-beak Fortune swoops, making the air gasp, tearing off crests for sport, letting them drop wherever. |
ΟΛαρο³Ον»έ
αυ χαίΗ ΟΉ³ιέ³έ« ν»ρ¨Ηέέ»ρΑ Ο·³Ρ³νΗΕ»έ«
Ωαι³σν³Νέ»ρΑ χ³ιω ΟΧ³ί³Ο»έ£ ²Ρ³ όαροαυέ³έ σ³Ν Ώ λΙ³έαυΩ ί³Ωχρ»Ιαν ϋΉΑ« Ηρ λαυρ Οοαυσαν ε³ο³ιαο»Ιαν χ³ιωΗ ελ³Οέ»ρ σχέαυΩ Ώ Χ³ΩχΗέ αυ ωρωη³Ιαν Γ¨Ηέ Ώ ο³ΙΗλ£ |
| Ground gives. The heaven's
weight lifts up off Atlas like a kettle lid, capstones shift, nothing resettles right. Telluric ash and fire-spores boil away. |
ΰυ
·»οΗέέ ³Ρ³ ο»ΥΗ Ώ ο³ΙΗλ£ ΰυ ε³ρ Ώ ·³ΙΗλ
Ώ Ν³έρ »ρΟΗέωΑ ²οΙ³λΗ αυλΗέͺ Ηέγε»λ Γ»ΫέΗΟΗ »ιΩ³έ Ο³χ³ρΗγ« ΰυ ο»Υ³Ρ³έν³Ν Ε³Ϋι»ρέ ³έΛέ³Ω σρΗν »έ ·³ΙΗλ£ ΆαΙαρίΗ³σ³Ν ϋΉ »έ ΅³ρΣρ³έαυΩ ΡαΥέ αυ λ»ρΩ»ρΑ£ |