I was all things, all is worthless

The more I contemplate
On the spectacle of the world,
On the ebb and flow of its things,
The more am I convinced
Of the innate prestige of falsity
Given to all pomp of reality.

All these parades of costumes and fashions,
Complex paths of progress of civilizations,
Splendid tangles of empires and cultures,
Seem to me like myths and fictions
Dreamed against shadows and oblivions.

But I do not know if all these aims,
When achieved, though very vain,
Lie in Buddha's realization -
Waking up in ecstasy and saying:
“Now I know everything.”

Or the Emperor Severus saying:
“Omnia fui, nihil expedit.”
I was all things, all is worthless.

Note: Rendering a page from the diary
of Fernando Pessoa in The Book of Disquiet.
251(493)