All tears of Heraclitus, all threnodies of Simonides—all melodies of antiquity—descend with weeping cries; with sorrow and remorse, gather the world's replies; and with grieving hands, carry them to where we dwell to mourn my daughter: she brutally fell to Death's wicked claw, without any repeal or justice given for me to appeal. He came like a serpent upon a nest of nightingales, who in the rush to digest his prize, failed to grasp the brave defiance of their mother, refusing to be suppliant— whose frenzied flutters drew his rage until, defeated, she barely flew unscathed. There are those who say: "We weep in vain." Tell me what in this world is not futile again? We seek the soft down of an easy life but cannot escape the fangs of strife; what then, is the antidote: to openly wail or to wrestle with nature to no avail?
Jan Kochanowski (1530-1584) (translation by Prontobard - 2023)