The whoops of joy erupting
from the school playground at recess
into the hot Mexican sky
are not Spanish sounds, but universal language
like the conversation of migrating birds,
the same no matter what nation is below
like the trees, which bud and leaf
without regard to syntax
like the sea, which roars and murmurs
alike to those on every shore
like the wind, which moaned with the same voice
before and after Babel fell.
A Chinese child, or African
transplanted here, would quickly learn
the Mexican version of the game
would shout with equal vigor
unique accents swallowed up in joy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Bird Talk creates a universal, recurrent perspective the images in this well-made poem compel the reader to open up to. in ways Emily Dickinson proclaimed the mind is broader than the sky.