Óid 1.11
A Leucóin, ní ceadmhach d'éinne a chinniúint a léamh,tusa ná mise: ná fiafraigh, ná téigh sa tóir ar fhreagraí
i nduilleoga tae ná pailme. Bí foighneach lena dtagann.
D'fhéadfadh gurb é seo an geimhreadh deireanach againn, nó tuilleadh
ag teacht is Muir na Toscáine á radadh acu ar na carraigeacha seo:
déan a bhfuil le déanamh agat, bí gaoismhear, gearr na fíniúnacha
is déan dearmad ar dhóchas. Tá an t-am ar eite agus sinne ag caint.
Beir ar an am i láthair, ní bhaineann an todhchaí le haon neach beo.
Tu ne quaesieris - scire nefas - quem mihi, quem tibi
finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios
temptaris numeros. Ut melius quicquid erit pati,
seu pluris hiemes, seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,
quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare
Tyrrhenum. Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi
spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.
Ode I. 11
Leucon, no one’s allowed to know his fate,Not you, not me: don’t ask, don’t hunt for answers
In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes.
This could be our last winter, it could be many
More, pounding the Tuscan Sea on these rocks:
Do what you must, be wise, cut your vines
And forget about hope. Time goes running, even
As we talk. Take the present, the future’s no one’s affair.