Woman, rest on my brow your balsam hands, your hands gentler than fur.
The tall palm trees swinging in the nightwind
Hardly rustle. Not even cradlesongs,
The rhythmic silence rocks us.
Listen to its song, listen to the beating of our dark blood, listen
To the beating of the dark pulse of Africa in the mist of lost villages.
Now the tired moon sinks towards its bed of slack water,
Now the peals of laughter even fall asleep, and the bards themselves
Dandle their heads like children on the backs of their mothers.
Now the feet of the dancers grow heavy and heavy grows the tongue of the singers.
This is the hour of the stars and of the night that dreams
And reclines on this hill of clouds, draped in her long gown of milk.
The roofs of the houses gleam gently. What are they telling so confidently to the stars?
Inside the hearth is extinguished in the intimacy of bitter and sweet scents.
Woman, light the lamp of clear oil, and let the children in bed talk about their ancestors, like their parents.
Listen to the voice of the ancients of Elissa. Like we, exiled,
They did not want to die, lest their seminal flood be lost in the sand.
Let me listen in the smoky hut for the shadowy visit of propitious souls.
My head on your breast glowing, like a kuskus ball smoking out of the fire,
Let me breathe the smell of our dead, let me contemplate and repeat their living voice, let me learn
To live before I sink, deeper than the diver, into the lofty depth of sleep.
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