Les moineaux ne me chantent pas.
Ils volent. Ils volent. Les moineaux s’envolent
Et laissez-moi prier pour une chanson.

I see the sparrow
perched upon the roof
next door watching me
watch him. Waiting
for the kindness of hello
or the gentle touch of sweet goodbye,

he leaves. The sparrow leaves.

I start to cry,
at the emptiness of branch
and sky — he is gone
and there is no song
no song at all to remember him.