Certainly, we’ve had stormy times.
Twenty years of love--it’s a crazy love.
A thousand times you took your luggage
A thousand times I took off.
And each piece of furniture
in this room without a cradle calls back
the flashes of old tempests.
Nothing makes sense.
You’ve lost your taste for the waters
and I for the conquest.
But, my love,
my sweet, my tender, my marvelous love,
in the clear light of dawn until the end of the day,
I love you still, you know. I love you.
Myself, I know all your spells;
you know all my charms.
You’ve protected me from pitfall to pitfall.
I have forgotten you from time to time.
Of course, you took a few lovers;
time had to be spent well,
the body must rejoice.
Ultimately, in the end,
we had to have a good deal of talent
to be this old without being grown-ups.
Oh, my love,
my sweet, my tender, my wonderful love,
in the clear light of dawn until the end of the day,
I love you still, you know. I love you.
The more time marches us on (toward our funerals),
the more time torments us.
But is it not the worst trap
for lovers to live in peace?
Certainly, you no longer cry as quickly;
I tear myself apart a little later--
we protect our secrets less.
We leave less to chance,
we’re cautious of the current of the waters,
but it’s always “the tender war.”
Oh, my love,
my sweet, my tender, my marvelous love,
in the clear light of dawn until the end of the day,
I love you still, you know. I love you.
