The top of the peaks

At the top of the peaks,

Live our hopes,

Reside our optimism,

There is light.

At the top of the peaks,

Like passing clouds,

Our life goes through this abyss,

In search of the light.

At the top of the peaks,

Our eyes are turning,

To pray, to hope,

To seek the light.

At the top of the peaks,

We must reach it,

Without ever doubting,

The very shadow of light.

And when the mountains,

Will go like clouds,

And when the mountains,

Let the light pass.

Finally, we will have succeeded,

At the top of the peaks.

@etoilesage

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May I be free or sold ?

 

To my Black Brothers and Sisters,

for whom, everyday is a combat against racial prejudice. Each one of you running from our kingdom, for the quest of freedom, education, fortune. When you stand in front of the ocean, reciting your hoping anthem “Shall I live or die”, you already put yourself in a compound situation. From there, you’re not master of your own destiny. Selling and treating like a merchandise by your own neighbor. I’m starting to believe the worst, even an iPhone is worth than our lives. This morning, I watched a documentary diffusing by CNN, “the Libyan selling black migrants in an auction sale.” This is another turning point in the history, we’re making a new one every generation. We as “black people” always have to fight for acceptance, freedom, education, respect. At the end of the day, we are simply fighting to be recognized as Human. Our ancestor have sadly fight but this is still our reality today. That’s why brothers and sisters, before leaving home; look around you. Look at what you’re leaving behind and answer my questions: from who or what are you running from ? ” Shall I live or die?” > “May I be free or sold?”.

I’m watching you.

I’m watching after you.

 

#Free-Migrants #Libya

 

@etoilesage -Adama Konate

26

Day and night are yours.

Hours, minutes,seconds make the law.

For my part, I only have my faith; says a wise to Marie.

We have faith only when we believe in it, do you believe in it ?

Monkeys adore dancing to the sounds of the tam-tam.

So let the tam-tam play!ūü•Ā<

One believes, when one sees it)<

belief before perspicacity.<

Believe me, my dear daughter;<

I saw monkeys dancing without a drum.

The vision of a thinker

The president has fallen, I wonder? 

The earth has become a village

The news spreads in a single click

The life of the president became a film.

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye superficial ornament

Disappears under the crackles 

Indiscreet lights and feathers.

They deliver us through the body

Impact and corruptible from the womb

The primitive animal impulses 

Revealing another facet of the President.

Despairing and degrading spectacle 

Of a false image fashioned Into the crowned lie

The court of the president vomits his hypocrisy.

Like a propitiatory victim 

The president is led to purgatory

 Does he call for help in humility, so that his soul may leave the dust? 

From the four corners of the earth 

Flock victims humiliated and flouted Scandal insult in the face of the president adorned with contempt, the chef takes place.

Illusionists and conjurers enter the track to do justice like a play known beforehand 

What happened in this room?

I watched the president appreciate his victory.

 A question crossed my mind 

Since the real victims are elsewhere. 

Is not the president’s wife the most to be pitied?¬†

Behold the affliction of the sons of righteousness. 

It is greater the affliction that affects the daughters of the republic. 

Proud governor, you have endangered your dwelling because you have chosen the devil’s share.


‚ÄĘ Last night, I stayed awake writing this poem. Recent events makes me cogitate a lot.

”To the Freedom of Speech.”


ADAMA KONATE

Road

Somewhere in the world,

A person seeks his way,

In the confines of despair without any idea,

He finds the path of an endless bitterness.

Sadly affected with the evil ideas which follow him,

Obligate to discover an unhappy loneliness,

While crossing its drunken territories,

Appear some painful emotions.

Holding his dreams,

Not showing any emotion,

A blinding force traces its way,

On an immaculate road,

There is a thirst for freedom,

Who only absorbs the goodness of humanity,

Give courage to these orphaned crossroads of gaiety,

Clings to his green dream a road full of mist.


ADAMA KONATE

Confidence of an Immortal Part.2

I consent boastful that you can look at me,
However, it is utopian to keep me.

Do not wait for me in the pitfalls of the turns,

My path is right and devoid of torment.

Do not multiply me by penalties on tortures,

I am an absorbing element of nature.

You will deprive me of walking and studying,

But never to advance, to know and to pray.

You can cut short my health and gas,

But never to my influence and existence.

I do not underestimate your fortress,

I admit that you are as hard as my weakness

As long as you have divorced with pity

To preach the idolatry of enmity.

You have tried in vain to promote the indigestible,

I remain flexible, clairvoyant and modest.

Speak to me I remain an eloquent mute.

Visit my ego, discover a conscious madman.

Wolves follow your animosity,

The world melts, so you sell your fraternity.

Take back your conscience, do not kill the immortal,

Who speaks to you is not a man as such.

Intimate antagonist; Do not persist,

It is high time to get rid of the wrong steps.

You have made yourself ladder of the poor subordinates,

Let them climb, do not make them look dull,

Do not block your stifled voices

Of those in boiling oil are heated.

Be sagacious and perspicacious to find that:

Humanism will only cost you altruism.

Wildness is woven with selfishness.

Submission to the law is a precious gift.

Honor and glory crown pardon.

With amenity one can be tamed

Thus will occur the expected unity.

As for my ancestors whose life you shortened,

I have made a clean sweep of every crime committed.

I forgave you.


ADAMA KONATE

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

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. ūüôā