Poem from Latin- "Death Has No Terror"- Seneca- Poems Found in Translation

Poems Found In Translation: “Seneca: Troades 371-408 "Death Has No Terror" (From Latin)” Seneca: Troades 371-408 "Death Has No Terror" (From Latin)  Posted: 09 Oct 2015 04:07 PM PDT This is the second choral ode from Seneca's Troades "The Trojan Women" whose underlying theme, that of death as a haven and release from suffering, grows out of the titular women's experience of life as unspeakable brutality, having been taken captive by the Greek coalition that has just sacked Troy. The idea of death as a release does not necessarily imply the non-existence of an afterlife, however. The first choral ode, for example, depicts the dead Priam happily wandering in Elysium. Both belief and non-belief in an afterlife were current in Seneca's milieu (the latter position is also evinced in the Greek epitaphs which I translate here from two centuries or so after Seneca's death) and both find expression and examination in his prose works, as in De Consolatione ad Polybium. It would, however, be incorrect to suggest that he believed that places like Elysium or beings like Cerberus might be real in any literal sense. Seneca himself believed in one omnipresent God known by many names, including that of Nature. He is decidedly non-committal about whether there is anything beyond death in the works that have come down to us, and does not present a single coherent view on the matter anymore than his Stoic predecessors. Not even in a single work, where he can claim in one chapter that death is equivalent to non-existence, and in another give an elaborate depiction of a deceased man's soul rising to meet his ancestors.  "Skeptical but hopeful" might be the only apposite generalization. What really matters for Seneca, though, is not what if anything happens after death but that, either way, it means an end to suffering.                 Death Has No Terror (From "Trojan Women" 371-408) By Lucius Annaeus Seneca (4 BC - 65 AD) Translated by A.Z. Foreman Is it the truth that souls live on  ã€€ã€€ 　　beyond the buried flesh?  Or just a myth to drug weak hearts　　 　　with hope for something else?   　 When fingers of the one we love　　 　　ease our eyes shut forever, when our last day blots out the light　　 　　of days that lay ahead,  and when the urn has sealed away　　 　　the ash that was our self, can we not give our being up  ã€€ã€€ 　　in the grave's gift of death?  Are we, poor things, condemned to live　　 　　through more existence yet?   　　 Or is death something absolute,　　 　　no fraction of us left  when our soul, like a burst of air　　 　　commingling overhead with vaporous and fleeting clouds,  ã€€ã€€ 　　flees with our last gasped breath and the cremation torches' tongues　　 　　have licked our naked flesh? All that the Sun sees on its rise　　 　　or in its setting glow, all that the Sea's blue billows wash　　 　　with global ebb and flow, is pulled by Pegasus-swift Time　　 　　doomward. All things must go.  As the cyclonic cosmos whirl　　 　　the Zodiac we see, 　　 and Sun, the Lord of Stars, spins out　　 　　the roll of centuries,　　 and Moon in witching orbit's arc 　　 　　speeds to Her destiny,　　 as all things extant go the way　　 　　they must go, so do we. He who has reached the stagnant waves　　 　　of Styx, the Netherstream        ã€€ã€€ where gods are sworn to ceaseless truth,　　 　　has simply ceased to be.　　        As smoke from sputtering fire, we soil ã€€ã€€ 　　the atmosphere, then fade. As the rain-pregnant clouds you see　　 　　first darken the blue day  are scattered by the sudden Northwind's ã€€ã€€ 　　chill blasts, then dissipate, the souls that rule our flesh will flow　　 　　apart without a trace. For there is nothing after death　　 　　and death is not a state only the finish line of this　　 　　swift existential race.  　 Lay down your greed for a reward,　　 　　your fears of punishment. When greedy Time and gnashing Chaos　　 　　devour us whole, we end.  For death can be no partial thing.　　 　　When it destroys the flesh it nullifies the soul. There is　　 　　no afterlife, no Hell, no hellhound guardian at the gates ã€€ã€€ 　　to block escape attempts,   no savage tyrant Lord who rules ã€€ 　　the kingdom of the dead. These are no more than hollow folktales　　 　　unworthy of attention, fragments of fantasy and myth ã€€ã€€ 　　turned nightmare and deception. ã€€ã€€ You ask "where will we go when we　 　　are dead forevermore?" 　　　　You'll be with the unborn.    The Original: VÄ“rum est an timidōs fābula dÄ“cipit umbrās corporibus vÄ«vere conditÄ«s, cum coniÅ«nx oculÄ«s imposuit manum suprÄ“musque diÄ“s sōlibus obstitit et trÄ«stis cinerÄ“s urna coercuit, Nōn prōdest animam trādere fÅ«nerÄ«, sed restat miserÄ«s vÄ«vere longius? An tōtÄ« morimur nÅ«llaque pars manet nostrÄ«, cum profugō spÄ«ritus hālitÅ« Immixtus nebulÄ«s cessit in āerā et nÅ«dum tetigit subdita fax latus? Quidquid sōl oriÄ“ns, quidquid et occidÄ“ns nōvit, caeruleÄ«s ÅŒceanus fretÄ«s quidquid bis veniÄ“ns et fugiÄ“ns lavat, aetās PÄ“gaseō corripiet gradÅ«. Quō bis sÄ“na volant sÄ«dera turbine, quō cursÅ« properat volvere saecula astrōrum dominus, quō properat modo oblÄ«quÄ«s HecatÄ“ currere flexibus: hōc omnÄ“s petimus fāta, nec amplius, iÅ«rātōs superÄ«s quÄ« tetigit lacÅ«s, usquam est. Ut calidÄ«s fÅ«mus ab ignibus vānÄ“scit, spatium per breve sordidus; ut nÅ«bÄ“s, gravidās quās modo vÄ«dimus, arctōī Boreae dissicit impetus: sÄ«c hic, quō regimur, spÄ«ritus effluet. Post mortem nihil est ipsaque mors nihil, vÄ“lōcis spatiÄ« mÄ“ta novissima. Spem pōnant avidÄ«, sollicitÄ« metum: Tempus nōs avidum dÄ“vorat et Chaos. Mors indÄ«vidua est, noxia corporÄ« nec parcÄ“ns animae. Taenara et asperō rÄ“gnum sub dominō lÄ«men et obsidÄ“ns custōs nōn facilÄ« Cerberus ōstiō rÅ«mōrÄ“s vacuÄ« verbaque inānia et pār sollicitō fābula somniō. Quaeris quō iaceās post obitum locō? Quō nōn nāta iacent.