the course of illegible things

I, only accountant, from the height of this corner room surrounded by an Ocean of snows.--Precarious quest of the moment, woman without proof or witness, shall I unmoor my low bed like a canoe from its cover? . . . Those who, each day, pitch camp farther from their birthplace, those who, each day, haul in their boat on other banks, know better, day by day, the course of illegible things; and tracing the rivers towards their source, through the green world of appearances they are caught up suddenly into that harsh glare where all language loses its power.

Snows | Saint-John Perse (trans. Denis Devlin)