Psalm 32, Patrice de la Tour du Pin | translation by Jennifer Grotz

,

.

Don’t I have a right, Lord, to the seasons?

Haven’t you made an error with this too long winter?

My soul looks in vain for something to attach to.

Nothing enlivens me anymore and I bring nothing to life,

my voice returns hollow from the smallest call for you.

Perhaps it’s my voice you despise.

Without it I am just a cavalier with no mount,

a poet stranded without your blessing:

I had tried to seize your grace.

Even a rock is more of a musician than I am,

my cry is more inarticulate than a beast’s,

my sorry throat fouls everything up. . .

Stop me, my God, from atoning myself to death:

for three years I’ve broken myself, I’ve bored into myself,

I’ve heard nothing but the sound of my own moans—and did you hear me?

I left the realm of the profane behind for you

and now you condemn me with silence.

No, I have not received my due!

At least come down to me. Don’t extend

an indifferent sky above me,

don’t leave me with a throat slit open . . .