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Timoniad

Sing, Muse,
of that misanthrope,
who was homeless and forever wandering,
since he had yet to chop down his fig tree.

In the city he ignored the many routine evils of most men
as he strove to keep alive, with a sorrowful heart,
his fig tree and the warm pot of food for his friends.
But, hard as he tried, he could not save himself.
The fool, ruined by his own wasteful ways,
saw the amount of wealth he had squandered,
all of the cows and goats he had eaten,
while his friends were grabbing all they found
wherever they could.

Sing, Goddess,
and gracefully tell the tale again in our time.

Translation of “Timonias.” Copyright Christopher Kontonikolis. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2011 by Andrew Barrett. All rights reserved.