Bernard Binlin Dadié

Bernard Binlin Dadié, HOME
Bernard Binlin Dadié Dry your tears, Africa, Motherland of the first humans, Garden of Eden, from which the world sprang forth. Dry your tears, Africa, Crucible of humanity, Throne of the first Pharaohs, Cradle of culture, From which sprang forth the great religions. Dry your tears, Africa, Your children are coming back, They are coming back to rebuild your wealth, They are coming back to redeem your dignity. Dry your tears, Africa, Your children are coming back, They are coming back to cultivate your land, They are coming back to feed your people. Dry your tears, Africa, Your children are coming back, They are coming back with knowledge and skill, They are coming back to restore your greatness. Dry your tears, Africa, Your children are coming back, They are coming back with hope and faith, They are coming back to give you new life. Dry your tears, Africa, For the day of redemption is at hand, The day when your children shall stand tall, The day when Africa shall arise again. […] Dry your tears, Africa! We have drunk From all the springs of ill fortune and of glory, Our senses are now opened To the splendor of your beauty To the smell of your forests, To the charm of your waters To the clearness of your skies To the cares of your sun And to the charm of your foliage pearled by the dew. The Lines of Our Hands Are not parallels Of mountain paths Cracks on tree trunks Traces of Homeric battles. The lines of our hands The lines of our hands Are not longitudes Of trench casings Furrows in plains Rays in hair Paths in the bush They are not Alleys of pain Channels of tears Channels of hate Strings for hanged /lynching/hanging Nor portions Nor slices Nor parts Of this… of that… The lines of our hands Not yellow Black White Are not boundaries Pits/ditches between our villages Ropes to bind rancor bundles. The lines of our hands Are life lines Destiny lines Heart lines Love lines. Soft chains Which bind (link) us One to the other, The living to the dead. The lines of our hands Not white Not black Nor yellow, The lines of our hands Unite the bouquets of our dreams.

Dry your tears, Africa,

Motherland of the first humans,
Garden of Eden,
from which the world sprang forth.

Dry your tears, Africa,
Crucible of humanity,
Throne of the first Pharaohs,
Cradle of culture,
From which sprang forth the great religions.

Dry your tears, Africa,
Your children are coming back,
They are coming back to rebuild your wealth,
They are coming back to redeem your dignity.

Dry your tears, Africa,
Your children are coming back,
They are coming back to cultivate your land,
They are coming back to feed your people.

Dry your tears, Africa,
Your children are coming back,
They are coming back with knowledge and skill,
They are coming back to restore your greatness.

Dry your tears, Africa,
Your children are coming back,
They are coming back with hope and faith,
They are coming back to give you new life.

Dry your tears, Africa,
For the day of redemption is at hand,
The day when your children shall stand tall,
The day when Africa shall arise again.

[…]

Dry your tears, Africa!
We have drunk
From all the springs
of ill fortune
and of glory,
Our senses are now opened
To the splendor of your beauty
To the smell of your forests,
To the charm of your waters
To the clearness of your skies
To the cares of your sun
And to the charm of your foliage
pearled by the dew.

The Lines of Our Hands
Are not parallels
Of mountain paths
Cracks on tree trunks
Traces of Homeric battles.

The lines of our hands

The lines of our hands
Are not longitudes
Of trench casings
Furrows in plains
Rays in hair
Paths in the bush

They are not
Alleys of pain
Channels of tears
Channels of hate
Strings for hanged /lynching/hanging
Nor portions
Nor slices
Nor parts
Of this… of that…

The lines of our hands
Not yellow
Black
White
Are not boundaries
Pits/ditches between our villages
Ropes to bind rancor bundles.

The lines of our hands
Are life lines

Destiny lines
Heart lines
Love lines.
Soft chains
Which bind (link) us
One to the other,
The living to the dead.

The lines of our hands
Not white
Not black
Nor yellow,

The lines of our hands
Unite the bouquets of our dreams.