PATRICE DE LA TOUR DU PINPsalm 18
Because I take refuge far from the wuthering surface,
in my hollow, it looks like I’m afraid of life.
I’ve made no attempt to toughen my bark exterior:
oh, the wood’s blood is so much more tumultuous.
Nothing seeps out when one scrapes against the surface,
but some gusts make all the sap spill out at once.
That’s why I have so little compassion on my lips,
there’s no way to know who, in the end, is waiting for me.
My refuge would appear too comfortable to him,
my withdrawal, an admission of cowardice.
But does your grace, Lord, abandon cowards?
Do they know that, those who judge me at a glance?
Have they felt the weight of the obsession to speak
and the burden of believing one is charged with such a task?
How will I describe these unpredictable gusts
and show them this heart submerged in waves of blood?
How will I show them that wind forms itself
into currents, then countercurrents?
I waste my efforts translating the ineffable:
my rendering of life will never achieve clarity.
Who would believe in my caverns, in my trees?
Who will take my stones as real? 