Languages, Poem by Charles Cros

Russian is cold, almost cruel,
German hisses its consonants;
Italy, in vain you resound
With your perpetual kiss.

In English there is honey,
Meowings of persons
Who call themselves sweet and good;
That serves, for the present time.

The languages of the East? regret
Or clucking without interest.
Dear, when you call me Charles,

With that blood-like accent
The language you speak to me,
It is French, clear as sunlight.

Charles Cros

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-languages-charles-cros/