Strange - is it not? That of the myriads who Before us passed

Hear now, children of time, the solemn words attributed to Horace, words that pierce the heart as they pierce the veil of eternity: “Strange—is it not? That of the myriads who before us passed the door of Darkness through, not one returns to tell us of the road which to discover we must travel too.” In these lines lies the most ancient of mysteries, the riddle that has haunted kings and beggars alike: the fate of the soul beyond the door of Darkness. Though countless have walked through it, none return to instruct us, none return to guide us, and so we, like them, must await our hour in silence and wonder.

This door of Darkness is the gate of death, the threshold no man may avoid. The myriads—generations upon generations—have crossed it: emperors with their crowns, mothers with their love, warriors with their wounds, and poets with their songs. All alike vanish into that undiscovered country. Horace, with the wisdom of the ancients, reminds us of the strangeness of it all: that despite the multitudes who have entered, the silence beyond remains unbroken. Not one voice has risen to tell us what lies there, whether light or void, whether rest or awakening.

Reflect upon the tale of Socrates, who, when condemned to die, spoke calmly to his disciples of the soul’s release. He did not claim certainty, but reasoned that death is either a dreamless sleep or a passage to another realm where truth is revealed. With courage he drank the hemlock, teaching not by answers but by serenity. In his composure, he embodied Horace’s truth: that none may escape death, yet wisdom lies not in fearing its silence, but in preparing one’s soul for the journey.

The quote speaks not only of fear but also of humility. It tells us that all human knowledge is bounded. Science may measure the stars, philosophy may probe the mind, but death remains beyond the scholar’s reach. This humility is necessary, for it teaches us to live well in the present. If the road beyond cannot be known, then let the road we walk now be filled with kindness, with courage, and with love. The mystery of death becomes, therefore, the teacher of life.

In history we see this truth echoed. Consider the Black Death of the fourteenth century, when entire cities were emptied, and the door of Darkness swung wide for millions. Priests, peasants, and princes fell alike. Yet what arose in the hearts of the survivors? A new urgency to live, to create, to love fiercely while breath remained. Out of plague-stricken soil bloomed the seeds of the Renaissance. Death, though unknowable, sharpened the meaning of life.

The lesson is clear: do not waste your days in terror of the unknown. The road will be discovered by each in its time, and no man or woman can walk it for another. But what you can do is prepare your spirit: live honestly, love deeply, forgive readily, and labor for good while light remains. Then, when the door of Darkness opens, you will step through it not as a beggar trembling, but as a traveler ready for the next chapter of the journey.

Practical action follows: speak kindly today, for tomorrow is uncertain. Mend old wounds, for none know how near the gate may be. Cultivate wisdom and peace of mind, so that when silence comes, it does not find you unready. The ancients remind us that to live with the awareness of death is not to despair, but to live more fully, more awake, more grateful for the gift of each dawn.

Thus, O listener, remember Horace’s words: the road beyond remains hidden, but the road here and now is clear beneath your feet. Walk it with honor. Walk it with courage. And when your hour comes, let your passing be not terror, but testament—that though you could not know the land beyond, you lived this one well.