To. . .

　　by Rene Char （Translated by Susanne Dubroff）

　　 You have been my love for so many years，

　　 It makes me dizzy to think of so much hope，

　　 And my dizziness won't be aged， or cooled；

　　 Even by what waited for our death，

　　 Or slowly learned how to fight us，

　　 Even by what is foreign to us，

　　 Or by my eclipses and my returns.

　　 A boxwood shutter

　　 Encloses our outrageous luck，

　　 Our chain of mountains，

　　 Our compressed splendor.

　　 I say luck， my wounded one，

　　 Each of us can receive

　　 The mystery of the other

　　 Without divulging it；

　　 Moreover our grief， which comes from elsewhere，

　　 That grief， which destroys and renews us，

　　 Will dissolve itself

　　 In the flesh of our union，

　　 Will finally find its orbit

　　 In our cloudy center.

　　 I say luck； it's how I feel.

　　 You have lifted the mountain top

　　 Which my hope will have to climb

　　 When tomorrow disappears.

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