Fernando Pessoa

Ulysses

Myth is the nothing that is everything.
The very sun that opens up the skies
Is a myth, so bright and mute,
Where God's dead body lies,
Alive and nude.

This one, who moored near,
Existed through non-existing.
Non-existent but enough and sheer.
He came through non-coming
And created us here.

And so the legend flows
Through the gate of reality,
Enriching it, and off it goes.
Below, life, half merely
Of nothing - in death throes.