I hear the birds of Mrs Álvarez
As they chatter in Apartment 302:
Who can make out what their glad language says?

They live in cages, not in winter trees:
Have they green plumage, streaked with red and blue?
I hear the birds of Mrs Álvarez

Cheering the cloudiest of Saturdays
With speech that's pure and beautiful and true.
Who can discern what their light logic says?

And every time their blithe concerto plays,
I start to smile, almost as if on cue!
I hear the birds of Mrs Álvarez

Weave a spontaneous train of sound that strays
Through realms of wonder and makes all things new!
Who can tell me what this quick music says?

Their song has force beyond all prophecies:
An avian oracle and her retinue!
I hear the birds of Mrs Álvarez:
Who can make out what their glad language says?