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« Dust of Empire »
When travelling through the world I saw the dust of empires.
The wind carries their stories and tells us something.
Alone, by the riverside, I let myself to think that I can change the world.
For some people, this kind of exercise is only pure madness,
And for others it is the very essence of hope.
Sometimes, I am like a rose that does not wish to open itself.
Letters are piling up one after the other and I do not want to read them.
And other times, I expose myself, I wholly give myself.
I am afraid of leaving this world without having told him who I am.
I come from where the earth is red and where people pray for the rain.
I come from where we hear the song of the griots at nightfall.
From the banks of the Nile to the gates of Lalibela,
We are well on the land of the Sheba Queen,
On the land of the Peuls people, of the Bantou and of Maghreb people.
Here rest the greatest stories,
From Carthage to Timbuktu going through Meroe,
The sand of the desert remembers...
What remains from all those empires ?
What shall we do with this inheritage ?
To those and those who stood up, then fell down,
Today I think of you….
« Dust of Empire » ©
« Noires sont les roses »
This text is a tribute to Africa and to its huge diaspora.
I am only a grain of sand on this vast beach, but I deeply wish to see, one day, Africa to raise to the rank it deserves.« Noires sont les roses »
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