Translated by A. Z. Foreman - Ode 1.11 - Ode for Ca**andra lyrics

Don't ask (we're not to know) what end, Ca**andra, the gods intend for you, for me; nor squander your mind with horoscopes. Do better: let what will be, be. Jove may grant winters yet or deem this year's your last that wears the wide Tyrrhenian sea out on the brawny side of cliffs. Be wise: have wine and prune the bough of long hopes to short minutes. Even now as we speak here, devouring time speeds on. Harvest this day and take no stock in dawn.