by Léopold Sédar Senghor (1906-2001)
Sunday.
The crowding stony faces of my fellows make me afraid.
Out of my tower of glass haunted by headaches and my restless Ancestors
I watch the roofs and hills wrapped in mist
Wrapped in peace . . . the chimneys are heavy and stark.
At their feet my dead are sleeping, all my dreams made dust
All my dreams, blood freely spilt along the streets, mingled with blood from butcheries.
And now, from this observatory, as if from the outskirts of the town
I watch my dreams listless along the streets, sleeping at the foot of the hills
Like the forerunners of my race on the banks of the Gambia and Salum
Now of the Seine, at the foot of the hills.
Let my mind turn to my dead!
Yesterday was All Saints, the solemn anniversary of the sun
In all the cemeteries, there was no one to remember.
O dead who have always refused to die, who have resisted death
From the Sine to the Seine, and in my fragile veins you my unyielding blood
Guard my dreams as you have guarded your sons, your slender-limbed wanderers
O dead, defend the roofs of Paris in this sabbath mist
Roofs that guard my dead
That from the dangerous safety of my tower, I may go down into the street
To my brothers whose eyes are blue
Whose hands are hard.
Translation by MELVIN DIXON
Today is Sunday.
I fear the crowd of my fellows with such faces of stone.
From my glass tower filled with headaches and impatient Ancestors,
I contemplate the roofs and hilltops in the mist.
In the stillness—somber, naked chimneys.
Below them my dead are asleep and my dreams turn to ashes.
All my dreams, blood running freely down the streets
And mixing with blood from the butcher shops.
From this observatory like the outskirts of town
I contemplate my dreams lost along the streets,
Crouched at the foot of the hills like the guides of my race
On the rivers of the Gambia and the Saloum
And now on the Seine at the foot of these hills.
Let me remember my dead!
Yesterday was All Saints’ Day, the solemn anniversary of the Sun,
And I had no dead to honor in any cemetery.
O Forefathers! You who have always refused to die,
Who knew how to resist Death from the Sine to the Seine,
And now in the fragile veins of my indomitable blood,
Guard my dreams as you did your thin-legged migrant sons!
O Ancestors! Defend the roofs of Paris in this dominical fog,
The roofs that protect my dead.
Let me leave this tower so dangerously secure
And descend to the streets, joining my brothers
Who have blue eyes and hard hands.
Translated, from the French, by ZACK ROGOW
It’s Sunday.
I’m afraid of the crowd that looks like me with its stone faces.
From my glass tower crowded with migraines and impatient Ancestors
I muse over the rooftops and hills in the mist
In the calm—the chimneys are serious and naked.
At their feet my dead are sleeping; all my dreams deeds—dust
All my dreams, needless blood spilled down the streets, mixing with the blood of butcher shops.
And now, from this observation post, as if from the outskirts of the city
I muse over my dreams walking distractedly down the streets, sleeping at the foot of the hills,
Like the drovers of my race on the banks of the Gambia and the Saloum
And now the Seine, at the foot of the hills.
Let me think about my dead!
Yesterday was All Saints, the Sun’s solemn birthday
And all the cemeteries were empty of memories.
Oh my Dead, who always refused to die, who were able to keep Death at bay
Away from the Sine, away from the Seine, and in my fragile veins, my indomitable blood
Protect my dreams as you protected your migratory sons with their skinny legs.
Oh my dead! defend the Paris rooftops in the Sunday fog
The rooftops that protect my dead.
Let me leave my dangerously safe tower and walk down to the street
With my brothers who have blue eyes
And rough hands.
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