When, by a decree of the supreme powers,
The Poet appears in this bored world,
His mother, appalled and full of blasphemies,
Clenches her fists at God,  who takes pity on her:

- "Ah! would that I had borne a whole knot of vipers,
Rather than nurtured this mockery!
Cursed be the night of passing pleasures
During which my belly conceived my atonement!

Since you have chosen me from among all women
To be the disgust of my unhappy husband,
And since I cannot cast into the flames,
Like a love-letter, this stunted monster,

I will make your hatred which overwhelms me rebound
On the cursed instrument of your malice,
And I will twist this miserable tree so well,
That it will not be able to sprout its pestilent buds!"

She swallows thus the froth of her hatred,
And, not understanding the eternal designs,
Prepares herself at the bottom of Gehenna
The pyres dedicated to maternal crimes.

Nevertheless, under the invisible guardianship of an Angel,
The rejected Child becomes intoxicated with sunshine,
And in all that he drinks and in all that he eats
Finds again ambrosia and crimson nectar.

He plays with the wind, talks with the cloud,
And becomes intoxicated singing of the Way of the Cross;
And the Spirit which follows him in his pilgrimage
Weeps to see him cheerful as a bird of the wood.

All those whom he wants to love watch him with fear,
Or indeed, emboldened by his tranquility,
Seek for the one who can draw from him a groan,
And test their ferocity on him.

In the bread and wine destined for his mouth
They mix ashes with their tainted spit;
With hypocrisy they throw away that which he touches,
And accuse themselves for having put their feet in his footprints.

His wife goes about public places crying:
"Since he finds me beautiful enough so as to love me,
I will adopt the role of ancient idols,
And like them I want to get myself regilded; 

And I will get drunk on nard, on frankincense, on myrrh,
On genuflections, on meats and wines,
So as to know if I can, in a heart which admires me,
Laughingly usurp divine homage!

And when I become bored of these wicked farces,
I will lay upon him my slight but strong hand;
And my nails, like the claws of harpies,
Will know how to tear themselves a path right to his heart.

Like a baby bird which trembles and flutters,
I will snatch out that heart, all red, from his breast,
And to satisfy my favourite dog,
I will throw it on the ground for him with scorn!"

Towards Heaven, where his eye beholds a splendid throne, 
The Poet, serene, lifts his pious arms,
And the great lightning flashes from his clear-sighted spirit
Hide from him the appearance of the enraged people:

- "Blessed be you, my God, who gives suffering
As a divine remedy for our impurities
And as the best and the purest essence
Which prepares the strong for holy pleasures!

I know that you keep a place for the Poet
In the blissful ranks of the holy Legions,
And that you invite him to the everlasting celebration,
Of Thrones, of Virtues, of Dominations.

I know that pain is the only nobility
Into which Earth and Hell will never get their teeth, 
And that you must, in order to braid my mystical crown,
Tax every era and every universe.

But the lost jewellery of ancient Palmyra,
The unknown metals, the pearls of the sea,
By your hand mounted, could not suffice
For this beautiful diadem, dazzling and bright;

Because it will be made only of pure light,
Drawn from the holy fire of pristine rays,
And of which mortal eyes, in all their splendour,
Are only reflections, misted and tearful!"