On the Appeal from the Race of Sheba: II By Léopold Sédar Senghor

Also Read

Bless you, Mother. 

I remember the days of my fathers, 

the evenings of Dyilor

That deep-blue light of the night sky on the land sweet at evening.

Sitting on the steps of the dwelling deep in shadow, 

My brothers and sisters clustering round my heart with the warmth of chicks,

My head resting on the lap of my nurse Nga, Nga the poetess,

My head humming with the war-like gallop of the dyoung-dyoungs, the gallop of my pure thoroughbred  blood 

My head singing with the distant plaintive melodies of Koumba the orphan.

In the centre of the courtyard, the solitary fig tree 

And amongst the moonlit shadows the wives of Man chatted with voices as deep as their eyes and as the  nocturnal fountains of Fimla. 

My father stretched out on peaceful mats, but big, but strong, but handsome

Man of the Kingdom of Sine; whilst all around the 

pasionate fingers of the grists danced over the karat, sounding a heroic song 

Whereas from further afield, heavy with strong warm odours, 

came the classical murmurous movement of a hundred herds