On hearing the striped contralto of guinea fowl,
its mock opera quivers the parsley atop its head --
The song makes its imprint
in the air, making itself felt,
a felt world. Here, there,
the stunned silence
of knowing I will not remember
what I heard;
that will never happen,
a fluidity we cannot achieve
except as a child
This is the untranslatable song
hidden in the earth.
From My Father and Miro, by Claudia Reder.