Untranslatable?

Headline from LeMonde.fr today: Trente ans sans caresser la peau de la lune. Well the story's not new news: the anniversary of the last visit's been covered elsewhere. I'm sure there are other reviews of the book in question too. But that headline. It can be translated literally--and then sounds pretty darn funny,--or paraphrased--and we'd end up with something probably referring to "setting foot on the moon", "touching down on the moon", the latter being maybe preferable because it preserves something of the intimate sentiments of the original,--but it can't be translated without a complete poem or song. The sensuousness of the line, the absolute sexiness dissipates. The moon's not just "a colourless and dusty ball of holes" (Be Careful When They Offer You The Moon) in the French. The headline somehow conveys the kind of romantic yearning to get there, and longing to return, that's perhaps wildly unrealistic (but then is the love affair mountaineers have with dangerous peaks or sailors with the sea any more realistic?) but part of the dream of exploration and discovery fundamental to human beings (at least the ones who are awake occasionally). And do we still hope to get there? A little, wistfully.

Flippantly, the ravens wonder whether, having touched the skin of the moon, if we should offer to share our moisturiser with her? But that would spoil the moment wouldn't it? Caw.