and now so much we see them, knowing not
what it is they want, and seeking ever and ever
a change of place, as if to drop the burden.

in such a way
each human flees himself- a self in sooth,
as happens, he by no means can escape,
and willy-nilly he cleaves to it and loathes,
sick, sick, and guessing not the cause of ail.

and too, when all is said,
what evil lust of life is this so great,
subdues us to live, so dreadfully distraught,
in perils and alarms. one fixed end
of life abideth for mortality;
death's not to shun,
and we must go to meet.

besides we're ever busied with the same devices,
ever and ever, and we are at them ever,
and there's no new delight that may be forged
by living on. but whilst the thing we long for
is lacking, that seems good above all else.

 
thereafter, when we've touched it, something else
we long for; ever one equal thirst of life
grips us agape. and doubtful it is what fortune
the future times may carry, or what be
that chance may bring, or what the issue next 
awaiting us. 


-luscious lucretious