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65 The Secret Spilled Fragile est le trésor des oiseaux. —Philippe Jaccottet, “Le Secret” Our language is newborn, and we’re translating without a dictionary. How naturally we share a tongue—la langue—not just the fleshy morsel that forms our sounds, but the beloved words we mouth in dreams. Like the birds’ treasure, this new song is fragile. May it always, always shimmer in the light! I can’t claim rights to keep it— In the car, I press rewind to memorize the track you’ve given me as map, lyre, and psalter. I sing aloud—oblivious of distance, of any signs, of my own hesitation to spill this language and its damp, new music. ...

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