By the colorful poet Michel Trad

I will make you swear, O sparrow, by the branch,

by the leaves, by the shade, by the springs,

by the one who fringed your wing with a feather of light,

by the one who swings you on the blue of the breezes:

make the world your country,

and embroider your grape-cluster

from the green of the laurel

upon the jasmine.

And give it reproach to drink,

and melt into it, in the woods,

verses and melodies.

You will fly, O sparrow,

to a hut of broom-shrub,

half-hidden... its roof all flowers,

carpeted with amber

and the beads of green dew —

a world... shadows upon shadows.

O you who carry everything,

what do you say — I want,

I want to send with you,

and tell you — I — and tell you what?:

God speed you on your way...

You will spy my arbor, and a door

tucked into its shade,

and a pretty one with a book beside her —

greet the pretty one.

And if your winds fall still,

you will roll your wing

on the roof, on the walls,

on the clothes hung out,

on the rugs, on the shirts,

on everything — dart and graze —

on the blue bench,

on the drunken moon

that reminds her of me.

And if there is nothing

left of our love,

hush the cupbearer,

O bird, and go your way.

And swoop down, and carry back to me —

whether from that hillside

or from that wood yonder —

some memory... some little thing!

And from the scratching of her hands,

and from beneath her feet,

a grain or two of dust.