Pride

Even rocks crack, I'm telling you,
and not on account of age.               
For years they lie on their backs
in the heat and the cold,
so many years,
it almost creates the illusion of calm.  
They don't move, so the cracks stay hidden.       
A kind of pride.
Years pass over them as they wait.
Whoever is going to shatter them
hasn't come yet.
And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed
whips around,
the sea bursts forth and rolls back --   
and still they seem motionless.                  
Till a little seal comes to rub up against the rocks,       
comes and goes.                           
And suddenly the rock has an open wound.
I told you, when rocks crack, it comes as a surprise.
All the more so, people.

PRIDE