The arrow goes less quickly to its target,
that it bites sharply; the straining chariot
does not race more silently
over the mute sand to the finish line,
than hastily and secretly our age
runs to its end. To whomever doubts this,
proud as he may be of naked reason,
each repeated Sun is a comet.
Carthage admits this, and you don't know it?
You risk danger, Licio, if you keep on
following shadows and embracing illusions.
The hours will not pardon you easily;
the hours that are filing down the days,
the days that are gnawing down the years.
Luis de Góngora y Argote (1561 - 1627) Spain
Translated by Sedulia
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