She wrote a poem in Spanish and its rhythm flowed like water. “Tell me what it says,” I asked. “A thing so fluid must be true.” “It does not sound so good in English,” she apologized, and frowned as she studied the verse. “It’s about a girl who loved greatly a man, who is killed, and the girl cries, because her lover is dead, and her love will live forever. You understand?” How trite it sounded spoken beside her melodic verse. How might English spin these thoughts to rest as soft as hers? She spoke from the soul of foreign tongue and my tongue’s soul had not the words except in weak translation. “It is very beautiful,” I said.