In memory of Chris, with whom it was so nice to talk about literature, a poem by René Char, translated by Nancy Kline. The Sorgue Song for Yvonne River too soon gone, unswerving, unaccompanied, Give to the children of my country the face of your passion. River where the lightning ends and where my house begins, That rolls the rubble of my reason around the steps of forgetting. River, in you earth is trembling, sun disquietude. May every pauper in his night bake his bread of your harvest. River often punished, river neglected. River of apprentices in calloused condition, There is no wind that does not bend before your wave crests. River of the empty soul, of tatters and suspicion, Of the old sorrow told, of young elm, of compassion. River of the feverish, the crackpot, of those who quarter carcasses, Of sun abandoning its plough to cosy up to liars. River of its betters, river of mists in bloom, Of the lamp that quenches anguish around its shade. River of respect for dreams, river that rusts iron, In which stars cast the shadows that deny the sea. River of transmitted powers and cries coming into the channel, Of the hurricane that nips the grapevine and announces the new wine. River whose heart is never destroyed in this world mad for prison, Keep us violent, a friend to the bees on the horizon.