From Martial
It's windy today and the waves are overlapping.
Autumn is coming, everything will change in the area.
The change of colors is more touching, Postumus,
than changing a friend’s outfit.
Virgo amuses to a certain extent -
You can’t go further than your elbow or knee.
How much more joyful is the beautiful outside the body:
No hugs are possible, no betrayal!
___
I am sending you, Posthumus, these books.
What's in the capital? Are they laying softly? Isn't it hard to sleep?
How's Caesar doing? What is he doing? All the intrigue?
All the intrigue is probably just gluttony.
I am sitting in my garden, the lamp is burning.
No girlfriend, no servant, no acquaintances.
Instead of the weak of this world and the strong -
only the harmonious hum of insects.
___
Here lies a merchant from Asia. Tolkovym
He was a merchant - businesslike, but inconspicuous.
Died quickly - fever. By trade
he came here for business, not for this.
Next to him is a legionnaire, under rough quartz.
He glorified the empire in battles.
How many times could they have killed? and died an old man.
Even here, Posthumus, there are no rules.
___
Let it be true, Posthumus, that a chicken is not a bird,
but with chicken brains you'll have enough grief.
If you happen to be born in the Empire,
It’s better to live in a remote province by the sea.
And far from Caesar, and from the blizzard.
There is no need to fawn, be cowardly, or rush.
Are you saying that all governors are thieves?
But a thief is dearer to me than a bloodsucker.
___
Wait out this downpour with you, hetaera,
I agree, but let's not trade:
take sestertius from the covering body -
it’s like demanding shingles from a roof.
Leaking, you say? But where is the puddle?
It never happened that I left a puddle.
You'll find yourself some husband,
it will leak onto the bedspread.
___
So we have lived more than half of it.
As the old slave told me in front of the tavern:
“When we look around, we see only ruins.”
The view, of course, is very barbaric, but true.
I was in the mountains. Now I'm busy with a large bouquet.
I'll find a big jug and pour water for them...
How is it in Libya, my Postumus, or where there?
Are we still fighting?
___
Do you remember, Postumus, the governor has a sister?
Thin, but with full legs.
You slept with her again... You recently became a priestess.
The priestess, Posthumus, communicates with the gods.
Come, let's drink wine and eat bread.
Or plums. Tell me the news.
I'll make your bed in the garden under the clear sky
and I’ll tell you what the constellations are called.
___
Soon, Postumus, your friend who loves the addition,
will pay off his long-standing debt.
Take your savings from under your pillow,
there is not much there, but enough for the funeral.
Ride your black mare
to the house of hetaeras under our city wall.
Give them the price for which you loved,
so that they pay for the same price.
___
The greenery of the laurel, almost to the point of trembling.
The door is open, the window is dusty,
an abandoned chair, an abandoned bed.
Fabric that has absorbed the midday sun.
Pontus rustles behind a black hedge of pine trees.
Someone's ship is struggling with the wind off the cape.
On the dry bench is the Elder Pliny.
A blackbird chirps in the cypress hair.
March 1972 
Honey, I left the house late this evening.
take a breath of fresh air blowing from the ocean.
The sunset burned down in the stalls like a Chinese fan,
and the cloud swirled like the lid of a concert piano.
A quarter of a century ago you had a passion for lula and dates,
I drew with ink in a notebook, sang a little,
had fun with me; but then I met a chemical engineer
and, judging by the letters, she has become monstrously stupid.
Now you are seen in churches in the provinces and in the metropolis
at memorial services for mutual friends, which are now continuous
in succession; and I'm glad that there are more distances in the world
unthinkable than between you and me.
You are lucky too: where else, except perhaps photography,
will you always remain without wrinkles, young, cheerful, mocking?
For time, when confronted with memory, learns of its lack of rights.
I smoke in the dark and inhale the rot of the tide.
Holland is a flat country
eventually passing into the sea,
which is, ultimately,
Holland. Uncaught fish
talking to each other in Dutch,
convinced that their freedom is a mixture
engravings with lace. Not allowed in Holland
climb the mountains, die of thirst;
It’s even more difficult to leave a clear trace,
leaving home on a bicycle,
sailed away - even more so. Memories -
Holland. And no dam
you can't hold them back. In this sense I
I've been living in Holland for much longer,
than local waves rolling into the distance
no address. Like these lines.
Christmas romance
Evgeniy Reina, with love
Floating in inexplicable melancholy
among the brick overhang
night boat inextinguishable
from the Alexander Garden,
unsociable night flashlight,
looks like a yellow rose,
over the heads of your loved ones,
at the feet of passers-by.
Floating in inexplicable melancholy
a bee choir of somnambulists and drunkards.
Photograph in the night capital
the foreigner did sadly,
and leaves for Ordynka
taxis with sick passengers,
and the dead stand in an embrace
with mansions.
Floating in inexplicable melancholy
sad singer in the capital,
standing at the kerosene shop
sad chubby janitor,
hurries along a nondescript street
lover is old and handsome.
Midnight Train Newlywed
floating in inexplicable melancholy.
Floating in the darkness of Zamoskvoretskaya,
an accidental swimmer in misfortune,
wanders Jewish reprimand
on the sad yellow stairs,
and from love to sadness
on New Year's Eve, on Sunday,
the beauty is floating,
without explaining my melancholy.
A cold evening floats in my eyes,
snowflakes tremble on the carriage,
frosty wind, pale wind
will cover red palms,
and the honey of the evening lights flows,
and smells of sweet halva;
night pie brings christmas eve
over your head.
Your New Year in dark blue
wave in the middle of the urban sea
floating in inexplicable melancholy,
as if life would start again,
as if there would be light and glory,
have a good day and plenty of bread,
as if life will swing to the right,
swinging to the left.
From the point of view of the air, the edge of the earth
everywhere. What, mowing down the clouds,
coincides - no matter what you cover up
traces - with a feeling of a heel.
And the eye that looks around,
mows the fields like your sickle;
sum of small terms when changing places
unrecognizable beyond zero.
And a smile will slide like the shadow of a rook
along a jagged hedge, a lush bush
holding back the rosehip, but shouting
honeysuckle, without opening your lips.
Candlemas
Anna Akhmatova
When she first brought into the church
child were inside from among
people who were there all the time
Saint Simeon and the prophetess Anna.
And the old man took the baby from his arms
Maria; and three people around
babies stood like an unsteady frame,
that morning, lost in the darkness of the temple.
That temple surrounded them like a frozen forest.
From the eyes of people and from the eyes of heaven
the peaks were hidden, having managed to spread out,
that morning Mary, the prophetess, the elder.
And only on the crown of the head with a random ray
the light fell on the baby; but he doesn't mean anything
I still didn’t know and was snoring sleepily,
resting in Simeon's strong arms.
And it was told to this old man,
that he will see mortal darkness
not before the Lord sees his son.
It's finished. And the elder said: “Today,
Keeping the word once spoken,
You are in peace, Lord, letting me go,
then my eyes saw it
child: he is your continuation and light
Source for idols of honoring tribes,
and the glory of Israel is in him." - Simeon
fell silent. Silence surrounded them all.
Only the echo of those words, touching the rafters,
It was spinning for a while
above their heads, rustling slightly
under the arches of the temple, like some kind of bird,
that is able to fly up, but not able to come down.
And it was strange for them. There was silence
no less strange than speech. Confused
Maria was silent. "What words..."
And the elder said, turning to Mary:
"Lying now on your shoulders
the fall of some, the rise of others,
a subject of controversy and a cause for discord.
And with the same weapon, Maria, with which
His flesh will be tormented, yours
the soul will be wounded. This wound
will let you see what is hidden deeply
in the hearts of men, like a kind of eye."
He finished and moved towards the exit. Following
Maria, stooping, and with the weight of years
the bent Anna looked on silently.
He walked, decreasing in importance and in body
For these two women in the shadow of the columns.
Almost urging them on with their glances, he
walked silently through this empty temple
to the vaguely white doorway.
And the gait was as firm as that of an old man.
Only the voice of the prophetess from behind when
rang out, he paused his step a little:
but there they were not calling out to him, but to God
The prophetess has already begun to praise.
And the door was approaching. Clothes and forehead
the wind has already touched, and stubbornly in the ears
the noise of life burst in outside the temple walls.
He was going to die. And not in the street noise
He opened the door with his hands and stepped out,
but into the deaf and dumb domains of death.
He walked through a space devoid of firmament,
He heard that time had lost its sound.
And the image of the Child with radiance around
fluffy crown of the death path
Simeon's soul carried before it
Like some kind of lamp into that black darkness,
in which no one has hitherto
I didn’t have a chance to light my way.
The lamp shone and the path widened.
* Dated from translations in SP and PS. Note in SP: date of writing
poems - Anna Akhmatova's birthday. NIB dating: March 1972
E. Leonskaya
There is severe frost and pine needles in the air.
Let's put on cotton and fur.
To toil in our snowdrifts with a bag -
A deer is better than a two-humped camel.
In the north, even if they believe in God,
then like the commandant of that prison,
where we all seem to have a sore side,
but all you can hear is that they didn’t give much.
In the south, where white precipitation is rare,
believe in Christ, since he himself is a fugitive:
born in the desert, sand and straw,
and he also died, I hear, not at home.
Let us remember today with wine and bread
a life lived in the open air,
so that in it and then avoid arrest
land - because there is more space there.
Joseph Brodsky- Nobel laureate and one of the most significant and original Russian poets.
Poem "Letters to a Roman Friend" was written in 1972. The title says “From Martial,” but this is not a free translation of any of the works of the famous ancient Roman poet Marcus Valerius Martial, but an independent work based on Roman history.
In the poem, the author plays the role of a Roman living during the reign of Julius Caesar. From the text of the poem we understand that he once lived in the capital, knew personally the powers that be, but decided to leave for a remote province. All that connects the hero with his former life is a friend named Postumus, to whom he sends letters, talks about his everyday life and asks about the news.
Posthumus is a fictitious addressee. The word “postum” (lat. postumus - “posthumous”) in Ancient Rome was attached to the names of people born after the death of their fathers.
LETTERS TO A ROMAN FRIEND
from Martial
It's windy today and the waves are overlapping.
Autumn is coming, everything will change in the area.
The change of colors is more touching, Postumus,
than a friend's outfit change.
I am sending you, Postumus, these books
What's in the capital? Are they laying softly? Isn't it hard to sleep?
How's Caesar doing? What is he doing? All the intrigue?
All the intrigue is probably just gluttony.
I am sitting in my garden, the lamp is burning.
No girlfriend, no servant, no acquaintances.
Instead of the weak of this world and the strong -
only the harmonious hum of insects.
Here lies a merchant from Asia, a smart
He was a merchant - businesslike, but inconspicuous.
Died quickly: fever. By trade
he came here for business, not for this.
Next to him is a legionnaire, under rough quartz.
He glorified the Empire in battles.
They could have killed so many times! and died an old man.
Even here, Posthumus, there are no rules.
Let it be true, Posthumus, that a chicken is not a bird,
but with chicken brains you'll have enough grief.
If you happen to be born in the Empire,
It’s better to live in a remote province by the sea.
And far from Caesar, and from the blizzard.
There is no need to fawn, be cowardly, or rush.
Are you saying that all governors are thieves?
But a thief is dearer to me than a bloodsucker.
Wait out this downpour with you, hetaera,
I agree, but let's not trade:
take sestertius from the covering body
it’s the same as demanding shingles from the roof.
Leaking, you say? But where is the puddle?
It never happened that I left a puddle.
You'll find yourself some husband,
It will leak onto the bedspread
So we have lived more than half of it.
As the old slave told me in front of the tavern:
“When we look around, we see only ruins.”
The view, of course, is very barbaric, but true.
I was in the mountains. Now I'm busy with a large bouquet.
I'll find a big jug and pour water for them...
How is it in Libya, my Postumus, or where there?
Are we still fighting?
Do you remember, Postumus, the governor has a sister?
Thin, but with full legs.
You slept with her again... You recently became a priestess.
The priestess, Posthumus, communicates with the gods.
Come, let's drink wine and eat bread.
Or plums. Tell me the news.
I'll make your bed in the garden under the clear sky
and I’ll tell you what the constellations are called.
Soon, Postumus, your friend who loves the addition,
will pay off his long-standing debt.
Take your savings from under your pillow,
there is not much there, but enough for the funeral.
Ride your black mare
to the house of hetaeras under our city wall.
Give them the price for which you loved,
so that they pay for the same price.
The greenery of the laurel, almost to the point of trembling.
The door is open, the window is dusty.
An abandoned chair, an abandoned bed.
Fabric that has absorbed the midday sun.
Pontus rustles behind a black hedge of pine trees.
Someone's ship is struggling with the wind off the cape.
On the dry bench is the Elder Pliny.
A blackbird chirps in the cypress hair.
Joseph Brodsky
Joseph Brodsky reads "Letters to a Roman Friend"
FROM THE INTERNET
READING BY I. BRODSKY
Joseph Brodsky
"Letters to a Roman Friend"
(From Martial)
It's windy today and the waves are overlapping.
Autumn is coming, everything will change in the area.
The change of colors is more touching, Postumus,
than a friend's outfit change.
I am sending you, Postumus, these books
What's in the capital? Are they laying softly? Isn't it hard to sleep?
How's Caesar doing? What is he doing? All intrigue?
All intrigue, probably, and gluttony.
I am sitting in my garden, the lamp is burning.
No girlfriend, no servant, no acquaintances.
Instead of the weak of this world and the strong -
only the harmonious hum of insects.
Here lies a merchant from Asia. Tolkovym
He was a merchant - businesslike, but inconspicuous.
Died quickly: fever. By trade
he came here for business, not for this.
Next to him is a legionnaire, under rough quartz.
He glorified the Empire in battles.
They could have killed so many times! and died an old man.
Even here, Posthumus, there are no rules.
Let it be true, Posthumus, that a chicken is not a bird,
but with chicken brains you'll have enough grief.
If you happen to be born in the Empire,
It’s better to live in a remote province by the sea.
And far from Caesar, and from the blizzard.
There is no need to fawn, be cowardly, or rush.
Are you saying that all governors are thieves?
But a thief is dearer to me than a bloodsucker.
Wait out this downpour with you, hetaera,
I agree, but let's not trade:
take sestertius from the covering body
it’s the same as demanding shingles from the roof.
Leaking, you say? But where is the puddle?
It never happened that I left a puddle.
You'll find yourself some husband,
it will leak onto the bedspread.
So we have lived more than half of it.
As the old slave told me in front of the tavern:
“When we look around, we see only ruins.”
The view, of course, is very barbaric, but true.
I was in the mountains. Now I'm busy with a large bouquet.
I'll find a big jug and pour water for them...
How is it in Libya, my Postumus, or where there?
Are we still fighting?
Do you remember, Postumus, the governor has a sister?
Thin, but with full legs.
You also slept with her... You recently became a priestess.
The priestess, Posthumus, communicates with the gods.
Come, let's drink wine and eat bread.
Or plums. Tell me the news.
I'll make your bed in the garden under the clear sky
and I’ll tell you what the constellations are called.
Soon, Postumus, your friend who loves the addition,
will pay off his long-standing debt.
Take your savings from under your pillow,
there is not much there, but enough for the funeral.
Ride your black mare
to the house of hetaeras under our city wall.
Give them the price for which you loved,
so that they pay for the same price.
The greenery of the laurel, almost to the point of trembling.
The door is open, the window is dusty.
An abandoned chair, an abandoned bed.
Fabric that has absorbed the midday sun.
Pont rustles behind the black hedge of pine trees.
Someone's ship is struggling with the wind off the cape.
On the dry bench is the Elder Pliny.
A blackbird chirps in the cypress hair.
Joseph Brodsky
Don't leave the room, don't make a mistake... (1970)
Book: Joseph Brodsky. Poems and poems
Don't leave the room, don't make a mistake.
Why do you need the sun if you smoke Shipka?
Everything outside the door is meaningless, especially the cry of happiness.
Just go to the restroom and come back right away.
Oh, don't leave the room, don't call the engine.
Because the space is made of a corridor
and ends with a counter. What if she comes in alive?
my dear, open your mouth, drive me out without undressing.
Don't leave the room; consider yourself blown.
What's more interesting in the world than a wall and a chair?
Why leave a place where you will return in the evening?
the same as you were, especially mutilated?
Oh, don't leave the room. Dance catching bossa nova
in a coat on a naked body, in shoes on bare feet.
The hallway smells of cabbage and ski wax.
You wrote a lot of letters; one more will be superfluous.
Don't leave the room. Oh, let it be just the room
guesses what you look like. And generally incognito
ergo sum, as the substance noticed in the hearts.
Don't leave the room! On the street, tea, not France.
Don't be a fool! Be what others were not.
Don't leave the room! That is, give free rein to the furniture,
blend your face with the wallpaper. Lock up and barricade yourself
closet from chronos, space, eros, race, virus.
Reviews
We are afraid of death, posthumous punishment.
During our lifetime we are familiar with the subject of fear:
emptiness is more likely and worse than hell.
We don't know who to tell us: "don't."
Our lives, like lines, have reached a point.
At the head of my daughter in her nightgown
or our son in a T-shirt will not wake us up.
Our shadow is longer than the night before us.
It’s not the bell that rings over the gloomy evening!
We are going into the darkness, where we have nothing to shine with.
We lower the flags and burn the papers.
Let us finally fall to the flask.
Why did everything turn out this way? And it will be a lie
blame it on character or the Will of God.
Should it have been different?
We paid for everyone and no change was needed.
Joseph Brodsky from “Song of Innocence, also known as Experience”
Brodsky at Pulkovo airport on the day of emigration.
June 4, 1972
From the archive of M.I. Milchik.
It's windy today and the waves are overlapping.
Autumn is coming, everything will change in the area.
The change of colors is more touching, Postumus,
than changing a friend’s outfit.
I am sending you, Posthumus, these books.
What's in the capital? Are they laying softly? Isn't it hard to sleep?
How's Caesar doing? What is he doing? All the intrigue?
All the intrigue is probably just gluttony.
I am sitting in my garden, the lamp is burning.
No girlfriend, no servant, no acquaintances.
Instead of the weak of this world and the strong -
only the harmonious hum of insects.
Here lies a merchant from Asia. Tolkovym
He was a merchant - businesslike, but inconspicuous.
Died quickly - fever. By trade
he came here for business, not for this.
Next to him is a legionnaire, under rough quartz.
He glorified the empire in battles.
How many times could they have killed? and died an old man.
Even here, Posthumus, there are no rules.
Let it be true, Posthumus, that a chicken is not a bird,
but with chicken brains you'll have enough grief.
If you happen to be born in the Empire,
It’s better to live in a remote province by the sea.
And far from Caesar, and from the blizzard.
There is no need to fawn, be cowardly, or rush.
Are you saying that all governors are thieves?
But a thief is dearer to me than a bloodsucker.
Wait out this downpour with you, hetaera,
I agree, but let's not trade:
take sestertius from the covering body -
it’s like demanding shingles from a roof.
Leaking, you say? But where is the puddle?
It never happened that I left a puddle.
You'll find yourself some husband,
it will leak onto the bedspread.
So we have lived more than half of it.
As the old slave told me in front of the tavern:
“When we look around, we see only ruins.”
The view, of course, is very barbaric, but true.
I was in the mountains. Now I'm busy with a large bouquet.
I’ll find a big jug and pour water for them...
How is it in Libya, my Postumus, or where there?
Are we still fighting?
Do you remember, Postumus, the governor has a sister?
Thin, but with full legs.
You slept with her again... You recently became a priestess.
The priestess, Posthumus, communicates with the gods.
Come, let's drink wine and eat bread.
Or plums. Tell me the news.
I'll make your bed in the garden under the clear sky
and I’ll tell you what the constellations are called.
Soon, Postumus, your friend who loves the addition,
will pay off his long-standing debt.
Take your savings from under your pillow,
there is not much there, but enough for the funeral.
Ride your black mare
to the house of hetaeras under our city wall.
Give them the price for which you loved,
so that they pay for the same price.
The greenery of the laurel, almost to the point of trembling.
The door is open, the window is dusty,
an abandoned chair, an abandoned bed.
Fabric that has absorbed the midday sun.
Pontus rustles behind a black hedge of pine trees.
Someone's ship is struggling with the wind off the cape.
On the dry bench is the Elder Pliny.
A blackbird chirps in the cypress hair.
Analysis of the poem “Letters to a Roman Friend” by Brodsky
The work of I. Brodsky is still perceived extremely ambiguously. Some praise him as the greatest poet of our time, others subject him to derogatory criticism. The main reason for negative statements is the poet’s vague and rude style and the use of obscene language. Critics believe that such a language cannot in any way be considered an integral part of the classical cultural heritage. In this regard, Brodsky’s poem “Letter to a Roman Friend” (1972) is very interesting. In it, the poet practically does not use complex images and symbols. The work is a calm reflection of the author, written in simple and accessible language.
In the title, Brodsky indicates a possible translation of the poem (“from Martial”). However, this is not true. It is an independent work. The poet simply uses the common ancient Roman genre of a friendly message-reflection to a loved one.
Brodsky was close to the ancient Roman poets who sang the individual freedom of the creative personality. At the same time, they most often had a negative attitude towards the all-powerful emperors. The comparison between the Soviet Union and the Roman Empire is clearly noticeable. The author likens himself to a Roman citizen who, for some reason, is in a distant province. A possible reason could be persecution by the authorities.
The author addresses a friend who remains in the capital. In the ironic questions about Caesar's condition, hints of the Soviet leader are visible. Brodsky considers the communist leadership an exact copy of the ancient Roman elite of society. The power of the two greatest empires is united by intrigue and insane luxury.
The main character emphasizes that being away from the capital, he feels great peace, which allows him to indulge in philosophical reflection. Brodsky never hid the fact that he was unfamiliar with the feeling of patriotism. He was not at all attracted by the title of citizen of the empire. In a powerful country, he strives to get to the very outskirts so as not to experience ideological pressure. The author puts forward a serious accusation, directed primarily against Stalin - “bloodsucker.” Compared to him, all petty leaders are simply “thieves” with whom one can still somehow coexist.
Brodsky is not at all concerned with national issues. This is clearly demonstrated in the remark: “in Libya... or wherever? ...are we still fighting?” For him, getting water for a bouquet of flowers is much more important than an international conflict.
In the mention of the “sister’s governor”, Brodsky’s allusion to those people who strive to achieve the favor of the authorities is visible. He equates “communication with the gods” with public respect, which is deeply alien to him.
The ending of the poem describes the simple situation surrounding the voluntary exile (“dusty window”, “abandoned bed”). Brodsky depicts his idea of the ideal lifestyle that he was able to subsequently achieve after leaving the Soviet Union.
Joseph Brodsky is a representative of the creative circle of poets unrecognized in the Soviet Union; readers were able to hear and see his first poems on the pages of books only towards the end of the 80s of the last century.
One of these poems was “Letters to a Roman Friend,” written by the poet in March 1972. In just a few quatrains, the great poet of our time reminds people that life is ordinary and boring if you spend it contemplating the fleeting beauty of people, acquiring earthly values, a precarious position in society, but it can become
Beautiful and meaningful, as soon as a person remembers his ability to see the beauty of nature and the world around him.
A line has been added to the title of the poem, indicating a translation in a regular collection, but in fact “Letters” is not a translation of the ancient poet’s poem; most likely Brodsky is trying to liken his work to Martial, who, like him, ridiculed the rich, lackadaisical, laziness and the desire to curry favor .
Already from the first lines of the poem there is a feeling of sadness about the past, such sadness is evoked by the autumn mood, an empty bench, falling leaves in the garden, it is at this time that the main character, living
In a deep and quiet province, he begins a letter to his friend who lives in a distant capital.
In the letter, he tries to convince his apparently rich and close to power friend of the vanity and fleetingness of the world, that the autumn nature he observes, the change of seasons and flying leaves is much more important than women’s looks and dresses tried on by metropolitan fashionistas . They are all deceivers and it is impossible to get more than one glance from them, while nature is honest and beautiful.
The hero talks about the powerful of the world and asks his friend about the position of Caesar, under which the name of his contemporary power clearly shines through, and also emphasizes that the intrigues weaving at court are known to everyone, including him, who is so little interested in them, therefore in response There is no point in writing a letter about them.
The central theme of the poet's philosophical reflections are two epitaphs, one of which is dedicated to a rich merchant, and the second to a legionnaire. The first spent his entire life in peace and died unexpectedly, expecting to live for many more years, the second was on the verge of death all his life, but died of old age. With these epitaphs, the main character shows his friend and all readers of the poem that everything on earth happens according to the will of fate and man, no matter how carefully he treats his health, life and well-being, is mortal.
Everyone faces their own fate, which no one can avoid, including the hero himself, who writes his letters almost to the point of death. In the penultimate letter, the hero asks his friend to come, drink wine, chat for the last time, and advises him to hurry up, since death is already close. As a caring and zealous person, the hero also writes to his friend about where he hid the money for the funeral, which he advises not to celebrate magnificently, but to spend on hetaeras; they will most of all grieve for their constant guest.
The poem ends the same way it began, that is, with a description of nature, but this time without the presence of the main character, he died, leaving behind an empty bench and a volume of the Elder Pliny.
