๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น Pilgrimage or Funeral

As far as I can see, in the prolix confusion of uncertain fate all gods and all men are equal. In the obscure fourth-floor room where I live, they file past me in a succession of dreams, and they are no more to me than they were to those who believed in them. The fetishes of Negroes with frightened, bewildered eyes, the animal gods of savages from tangled wildernesses, the figures the Egyptians made into symbols, the bright divinities of the Greeks, the upright gods of the Romans, Mithras, lord of the Sun and of all emotion, Jesus lord of consistency and charity, various interpretations of that same Christ, new saints, the gods of the new towns, all file past to the slow march (is it a pilgrimage or a funeral?) of error and illusion. On they all march, and behind them come the empty shadows, the dreams that the more inept dreamers believe must have come down to live on earth, simply because they cast shadows. Pathetic concepts with neither soul nor face โ€“ Freedom, Humanity, Happiness, a Better Future, Social Science โ€“ they trail through the solitude of the dark like leaves dragged along beneath the train of a regal cloak, in the eternal exile of kings, a cloak stolen by the beggars who occupied the gardens of the house of defeat.

โ€” from The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition by Fernando Pessoa, edited by Jerรณnimo Pizarro, translated by Margaret Jull Costa

1929 (2017)