O blind men, blind men! What good is all this toil?
You all return to the great ancient mother,
and your names are barely recognisable.
(O blind men, blind men!)
Yet among a thousand useful labours,
let them not all be obvious vanities!
Who understands your studies, tell me?
What is the point of subjugating so many countries,
and making foreign peoples pay tribute,
whose hearts are always set on harming you?
What is the point, after dangerous and vain undertakings,
and acquiring land and treasure with blood,
when water, bread, are sweeter,
glass and wood than gems and gold?
(O blind, blind men!)
Where are the riches now? Where are the honours,
(O blind, blind men!)
and the gems, and the sceptres, and the crowns,
(O blind, blind men!)
and mitres of purple colour?
Wretched is he who places his hope in mortal things!
Francesco Petrarca (1304–1374) from: Trionfo della morte (Triumph of Death), 1, 90ff