Lost Fragment of Marcus Aurelius

“On Losing Again in the Tournament”

Meditations, Book XXIV, lines 50-62

(My translation)

Now again our brave lads lie bleeding and broken on the hardwood,

Ridden roughshod over by the implacable foe,

Yea, the merciless mercenary host from the East,

And abandoned again by the unjust zebra-striped officials.

And scorned by the scurrilous scribes.

Now, again, our fondest hopes are dashed,

Our families and friends cover their faces to hide their shame and grief.

Even before the tender buds sprout from the trees,

And the crocus and daffodil shoot forth from the wet dirt,

Lo, the birds, so unconcerned with the affairs of men,

Sing from the branches, searching for mates.

So again, as every year, our fondest aspirations lie ruin’d in dust,

Therefore, we must compose our hearts and minds,

Equanimously to relearn the lesson we have learned every year,

But have apparently forgotten, our memories annually befogged by Lethe:

O, fellow fans!

Why rend your raiments and gnash your teeth?

Has it not always been so?

Have we not been instructed by the sage?

Defeat comes to all but one, and even that victory, sweet tho’ it be,

Is fleeting and melts away as the snow in a warm breeze,

Just as certain as Death who comes for all mortals, just and unjust.

But at least our courageous squadron,

Who we believed were the darlings of Jove and Mercury, dei ludorum,

Tho’ their shots clattered and clanked off the cruel iron,

Fruitless as raindrops on rocky ground.

Still—they have striven and struggled to their human limits;

tho’ they faltered and failed

‘Neath the feet of the exultant adversary,

Like the Phoenix they shall rise again,

And our hopes again shall emerge green from the dry ashes of defeat.

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