Amicale

On this Sunday 28 March, the 16th day of the "Printemps des Poètes", we share two poems composed by Mamadou Guirassy, leader of our new West African Language and Culture Section.

 

Once upon a time, the dodo

A magnificent bird people,
Legendarily calm and peaceful,
Completely erased from the earth,
By man, with murderous madness.

The habitat spared from conflicts,
One day brutally invaded,
By carnivores with weapons,
With fire, with frightful noise.

By so much cruelty, surprised,
Consequently, abundantly taken,
And so unsuited to flight,
Corpulence makes pursuit easy.

Deprived of all help,
Often, towards the nest, they run,
Hoping, for want of safety,
To arouse a little pity.

A sadly futile attempt,
The predator, untroubled,
On the shelters exercised his barbarity,
Laughing at the painful agonies.

Notoriously bitter,
If not disgusting, the food,
Of hunters, was appreciated,
Especially in a spicy soup.

The belly destroys the world,
Of species, in a few seconds,
Precipitated forever into nothingness,
Bereaving the family of the living.

Mamadou Guirassy

NB: The Mauritius Dodo (Raphus cucullatus) 
The last dodo died in 1681.

 

 

The mystery of the feather

Mysterious feather, why,
Not brother, not neighbour, but me,
Unlike everyone else,
I hear the misery rumbling.

Your claws closed on the prey,
Immediately bewitching its voice,
Which now belongs entirely to you,
Like a soldier, to the regiment.

Like a pack of troubadours,
To court the emperor,
It is naturally tempting,
But rather the gallows, the nothingness.

Courage, not necessary,
In the impossibility of keeping silent,
Expression, never a challenge,
But the everyday, simply life.

In my warm blanket, huddled,
Ideas sown in my mind,
By a capricious winter night,
Compel me to compose verses.

I resist, sleep interferes,
The eye of the eye is restless,
Preventing the eyes from closing,
No choice but to get up

However, what's the point,
To put words on paper,
The lure of gain, the glory,
The desire to be seen?

Absolutely, far from it,
The poet would die of shame,
The writing imposes itself on him,
As with routine, boredom.

Destiny reduced to the drawer,
To a few evening readings,
But the value of the noted rhyme,
Never lies in notoriety.

It is a pleasure to be read,
But that's hardly the point,
Only to build verses,
To leave traces on earth.

Mamadou Guirassy