Confidence of an Immortal #P.1

I want to shout out loud to the deaf voluntarily

Whoever refuses to listen to me wants to be silent.

This explosive defuses the boy.

Who makes war his beloved ornament.

This ax hurts the obstinate heart

All enchanted to see my person mined.

This extinguisher calms the inflamed spirits

Pretended to injure my lame reputation.

You! Waterproof core, hive without door;

How dare you to swell like that?

For a long time you have been ecstatic with my sobs,

Your blows assail me in my retreat on the island.

My tears drove you like a picturesque fall,

Nevertheless, my Lord liquefies your soldiery.

Your wickedness amplifies my love,

Your ferocity stimulates my affection,

Far from inciting me to reactions of violence,

Your eccentricities rinse my tolerance.

You made my patrimony your medal

And I have always ignored reprisals.

You strut in the sumptuous castles

Whose pillars are we; Beggar with unctuous hearts.

If you knew who hoisted you on this great throne,

You would become a good woman and I would be your patron.

In spite of the hymn on the theft of my due,

My silence keeps you constantly hanging.

Reason duly, do not do the seraph *!

Know that your hegemony is not endless.

(Is it that)

The sky gave me full freedom

Allow me to face you with pride.

You hate me, I agree with my colleague,

But your limits on me are very clear;

Take away my eyes, my soul will see thee,

And he will set you up as he pleases.

Undoubtedly, it is your rights to see me,

Yet you are not likely to have me.

ADAMA KONATE

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America

To America, 

The mother of the proud warriors of colors 

Who by their wisdom and courage 

Have made her a queen.

To America, to this torch that my grandmother holds on the edge of the distant river.

The torch of independence, the independence of your territory.

The torch of freedom, the freedom of your children. 

The torch of prosperity, the prosperity of humankind.

The torch of heritage,

That the vast expanses of this old continent offer you in the golden cities 

And mythical countries of Eldorado, 

Norembergue and Saguenay.

The torch that never extinguishes.

Held by the hand of the victory.

To America, my America of whom sings my grandfather on the banks of the distant river

I never knew you but my gaze is full of your blood

The blood of your sweat, 

The sweat of your work,

The work of slavery,

The bondage of your children

America tell me America. 

Is it you the most powerful bird that by its greatness and its capacity has made its nest on the moon.?

This white headed bird 

Who reaches the inaccessible and meditates on the impossible.

Then gently a reassuring voice answered me:

Impetuous Girl this robust and young bird 

That bird splendidly up there 

Away from prying eyes

Looking for shelter near the blue and cold river 

It’s America, your America that flies,

That flies over latitude attentively 

And whose wings are determined to go far, far into the future. 

Can you see it now?

No. 

Well, this is America.
ADAMA KONATE

The prunes

The jar of prunes?

Yes ? This very large jar?

Formerly full of prunes?

This tantalum pleasure?

A brave thief

Introduced his fingers

By seizing a choice

That made him great happiness.

When the owner

Wanted to know the intruder

The eye that knows how to keep quiet.

The suspicion lived,

In a disappointed confidence.

Jar … sealed on.

The fault of the prune?

Who wants to tempt the eater,

Very weak human weakness.

For the pleasure of some, 

not respecting the property of others, 

the harmonies disappear, 

making them come back takes time, 

when it is not too late to do it, 

what has disappeared destroys the 

balance of what remains .


ADAMA KONATE

The ploughman

Work, make the effort:

It is the fund that lacks the least.

A rich ploughman,

Feeling his approaching death,

Sent for his children,

Talked to them without witnesses.

Beware, he said,

Sell the heritage

That our parents have left us:

A treasure is hidden inside.

I don’t know the spot;

But a bit of courage

Will make you find it:

You’ll manage.

Turn over your field

As soon as we’re done with August

Dig, search;

Leave no place where the hand

Doesn’t go over and over.

When the father died,

The sons turn over the field,

Here, there, everywhere:

So that at the end of the year

It produced more.

No money was hidden.

But the father was wise

To show them before his death,

That work is a treasure.


#WRITTEN BY JEAN DE LA FONTAINE 

* I learned this poem in 2006 at the primary school in Bamako, West Africa. Poems were then recited at the Certificate of Primary Studies, declaiming them if possible, in order to obtain a better grade.  

This poem served me throughout my school career and in working life. It is a magnificent poem, educational and awakens consciences from a young age. 

Thank you Jean de la Fontaine. 🙂

Self. Esteem 



The days are gone painfully,

Without purpose, without joy,

Too slow,

A too heavy burden,

What a beautiful gift

That I have been dragging since childhood,

With constancy,

Prisoner of a sentence thrown at the chance of a discussion,

Who transformed my life into negation,

Who turned it off

As a candle is extinguished

In a forbidden breath.

But I have not finished shouting that I am,

Who I am,

I will make an ultimate foot-of-nose

To this life so measured,

Too well regulated,

I will not be what you expect,

I will fight to defend ideas,

That you may find footprints of too naive humanity,

Fists raised,

But with this serenity regained,

I will make my destiny

With the end,

Perhaps something crazier,

Moreover,

No more compromises,

Forgotten the image that we want to leave behind,

I will finally be Me,

Without faith or law,

With this joy of finally being recognized,

 I’ve been waiting so long …


ADAMA KONATE

Path

I have the memory of feeling the heavy pace,

Weighed down by the sadness of living beings,

Guessing in the mist of a small morning,

The shadow of Humans screwed, tightened by grief.

Very high perched, at the top of a guardian tree,

In this valley, from an american village,

A gray dove, moaning her song,

By cooing, to the pilgrims, uniting.

The funeral march begins. In crescendo.

They walk, family, friends on my back.

The air is torn. A thousand tears sobbed,

By the child of man, now deceased.

Held by six porters with a vaulted shoulder,

Folded under the weight of the wooden studded coffin.

It is for the loved one, this setting in the ground,

This right to the chaplain and to his prayers.

For this memory, the date and the name,

On the stele, engraved plaque, the inscription.

A place to offer for recollection,

To the children of the present time and of a future time.

I am by whom come the departed,

I was born of the first mortal buried,

I am forged with forgotten imprints,

I am a path, both land and gravel.

By forced passages of tried people,

I have grown, worn out, over the years,

In two furrows, generated by strides.

I am way, at once, Earth and Sacred.


ADAMA KONATE

Rebellious 

I want to dream about friendship 

Without limit faced with that truncated 

By the saws of interests and the dark corners of these theatrical hearts

Chameleons treacherous, dressed in false pretenses 

They wander at the top of the ladder yet 

And slyly demolish “the little people” 

Summing them to be silent on their manigance.

I want to dream about justice 

Face to that masked by many artifices of nobility of courtyard

Entangled in the folds of false speeches 

Woodcutters rampant in the forest of words 

They prune without concern for the rising sap 

The inner riches of a screaming life 

A recognition of what makes one’s self.

I want to dream simply about everyday life 

Life unhindered and smoothly 

And not to survival 

That makes us this horrible machine of the species called “human”.


ADAMA KONATE

Exquisite hour

I love this exquisite hour and morning

Where I go by meadows and fields

From my southern countryside

To contemplate the morning approaching.

Dew still pertaining to herbs

Makes myriads of golden drops

In which are reflected, superb

The steps of the walker reinvigorated.

Everything is still quiet and only singing

Chirping birds are heard.

And then suddenly everything becomes endearing

Walking cradles him and can not wait.

He finally understands who he is here

Lonely and invested walker

From a sacred mission to an ultimate goal

Testify of the beauty he believes.


ADAMA KONATE

Daddy’s son

The disease knocked on our door
Now we must fight it

Without being dominated

And above all it is necessary to keep the morale.

It’s very hard not to cry

About what has just happened to us

The fear of a day seeing my father leave

Is painful and unreal ..

My heart is crying and my eyes are bleeding

I hate deep inside me

I want to take his pain

To relieve him of his illness.

It is believed that it only happens to others

But it is only illusion

It’s hard to get a slap

From which there will be sequelae ..

He cries for his pains

And me of my hatred

He cries for his illness

And me of my fear ..

Rise is to decide

Let me replace you

I’ll take your pain

So that you can find happiness again.


ADAMA KONATE

Renewal 

I want to drown myself in the matter

Like a seed that one forgets 

For a whole winter 

Then suddenly it comes out of nothing

And nobody understands anything

There, there was no trace 

And all of a sudden it takes up all the place

It had so completely disappeared that one had forgotten its existence 

and suddenly it emerged from a subterranean.

As an obscure tunnel in the middle of the light

Hello, Are you alright. ?

Me too.

I come from far away.


ADAMA KONATE