The sun is not rising anymore

When the sun rises,

I close my curtains to block out the light,

My habit does not ask me to be open nor to change,

It lets me get stick to it until I get sick of it,

I saw many sunrises with different shapes, but every time I brought down the curtains to let them in, a part of me goes away;

my trust, my self-esteem, my beliefs, my freedom.

Only two things stay, my humanity and my curiosity to find out why this is happening to me ..

Why every time I open up it hurt?

Why people that I was proud to call best friends intimidated me?

Why someone with a gifted birthmark should be suspicious or taken as a sign of rebellion by police officers?

Why people who cry for diversity on television news are the most insociable in real life?

Why the government instead of protecting people are dividing them?

Why do women abide the worst for so long to dramatically come out of the closet?

If you have an answer to all of these questions, then you will have a clear perception of why I keep my curtains closed,

You will acknowledge that even with open curtains, the light will not enter in,

The sun is not rising anymore.

Author: Adama Konate

Cr. Image: Alamy

Blog: @etoilesage

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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

Silence knows you


Stay awake, well planted on your feet

Be present there, where you are

Look around you

Without putting a name, a state, a speech,

On what you perceive, nearby and in the neighborhood,

See light, shapes, people, colors

Removes error, judgments, odors,

Everything has a taste, and carries a rhyme

Meaning the presence that animates them

Even the object that seems useless

Everything has its interest

Everything has been created

In life, in love or pain

And even if you approach one day

Something that resembles conflicts

Who weighs you, who is heavy

Listen, sense the energy that flows

Even if you can not see it

And that seems ridiculous

Try a little bit

Do you really dive in?

In this strange, this ocean

Who pushes you forward

See what is hidden in detours

This might sound like a desire

A desire for life

Even in the confines of suffering,

The silence knows you

It is not very far from you

You will hear his voice

If you stop a little

Maybe you could see him,

Can be with your eyes

Then you will stay there, well planted on your feet

Look at him.

  • When I took my pen in hand, I had no idea of what to write about. But, I feel like writing something. So, I stayed silent for an hour and a half ruminating. Suddenly, I came with this imagination seeing myself talking to Mr. Silent. He stayed silent as if he knows every words I was going to say. We did not talk at all but we had a really great conversation, I learned from him that by ruminating we permit ourselves to be more open to things and also it is not what you see that count but what you perceive . Nowadays, the majority are people who like/dislike the title of the book without reading it. My poem has also a psychology meaning lol do not worry ”I’m not trying to get into your mind”. Allow silence to do that, trust me he will not say a word. He knows what privacy means, your secret will be safe with him. He is a dumb genius, who uses telepathy to communicate. He and I are good friends now. He gives me ideas, I write it down.

ADAMA KONATE 

IF LIFE IS A DREAM


If life is a dream

Why torture me?

I can get drunk without remorse

And if I come to stagger

I will fall asleep under the porch of my home

When I wake up a bird sings among the flowers.

I ask him what day we are.

He answers: in the spring,

The season when the bird sings!

I feel strangely moved

And ready to blow out.

But I return to drink

And I sing all day long

Until the evening moon appears.

And when my songs are silent

I am no longer conscious of what surrounds me.

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

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

LOVE & WEAKNESS

My beauty, 

comfort me this evening. 

I am dying of love;

I need you to live until the day.

Should someone reproach me

For having towards you the heart harder than rock

To have left you, mistress,

To follow the Queen,

Beggar I do not know what 

That the vulgar call a largesse ?

Rather perish honor, shortness, and wealth,

That for goodness I never leave you,

My belle.

Often it only takes a tear of you, God listens to me.

The mouth is silent

To hear the heart speak.

Nothing makes us so great than a great pain. 

But, to be attained, do not believe, O poet.

To deceive his mistress, or overcome its weakness. 

Succumb, or fight incessantly.

God speaks, we have to answer. 

Forgive me if I always shake to have a weakness.

Do you love me again ?


ADAMA KONATE

“THE WISE WOMAN”

Today Lord, 

I learned that you love another woman,And I come, desperate, to bid you farewell.

 One last time,

Pour the same wine into our two cups.

One last time, sing the song

Which speaks of a dead bird under the snow.

Then I will embark on the Hudson River

Whose waters divide

To flow east and west.

Why do you cry, Belle. Who hurt you?

You may marry a man with a faithful heart,

A man who will repeat to you sincerely:

“I only have eyes for you…”


ADAMA KONATE 

“THE QUIET RIVER”

Beyond the orchard which borders the bank, 

the vaporous chariot of the queen of shadows rises and whitens the horizon. 

Our boat slips on the quiet river 

While my friend sleeps, her hand in the water. 

A butterfly slipped on her shoulder, beat her wings and then flew

For a longtime, I watched him. 

It was heading towards the Cleveland mountain.

Was it a butterfly, or the dream that my friend had just made?


ADAMA KONATE