Sweet baby,

I say,

And, it’s okay.

A starling can talk.

(Ask Mozart.)

And I want to hear

Love and hope

In its first words,

Or songs.

Perhaps, Debussy,

A poem in notes:

Beau Soir,

By Paul Bourget.

French to English,

Or the universal

Tongue, which is music,

And easier

Than the lingual translation.

Learn to sing,

My starling,

And we will know.

Beau Soir

Lorsque au soleil couchant les rivières sont roses
Et qu’un tiède frisson court sur les champs de blé,
Un conseil d’être heureux semble sortir des choses
Et monter vers le cœur troublé.

Un conseil de goûter le charme d’être au monde
Cependant qu’on est jeune et que le soir est beau,
Car nous nous en allons, comme s’en va cette onde :
Elle à la mer, nous au tombeau.

(my translation, not exact):

When the skies are pink at sunset

And a gentle shiver runs across fields of wheat

Advice to be happy seems to rise from all around

And reach the wounded heart.

A counsel to see, appreciate fully, the sweetness of being alive,

While we are alive, and the evening is generous.

For we are passing on, just as the sun goes down

To the opposite side of the earth,

While we, to our end of days,

And then, our graves.