Leopold Sedhar Senghor

Leopold Sedhar Senghor HOME
Leopold Sedhar Senghor Black Woman Naked woman, black woman Clothed with your colour which is life, with your form which is beauty! In your shadow I have grown up; the gentleness of your hands was laid over my eyes. And now, high up on the sun-baked pass, at the heart of summer, at the heart of noon, I come upon you, my Promised Land, And your beauty strikes me to the heart like the flash of an eagle. Naked woman, dark woman Firm-fleshed ripe fruit, sombre raptures of black wine, mouth making lyrical my mouth Savannah stretching to clear horizons, savannah shuddering beneath the East Wind's eager caresses Prayer To Masks Masks! Oh Masks! Black mask, red mask, you black and white masks, Rectangular masks through whom the spirit breathes, I greet you in silence! And you too, my panterheaded ancestor. You guard this place, that is closed to any feminine laughter, to any mortal smile. You purify the air of eternity, here where I breathe the air of my fathers. Masks of maskless faces, free from dimples and wrinkles. You have composed this image, this my face that bends over the altar of white paper. In the name of your image, listen to me! Now while the Africa of despotism is dying – it is the agony of a pitiable princess, Just like Europe to whom she is connected through the naval. Now turn your immobile eyes towards your children who have been called And who sacrifice their lives like the poor man his last garment So that hereafter we may cry ‘here’ at the rebirth of the world being the leaven that the white flour needs. For who else would teach rhythm to the world that has died of machines and cannons? For who else should ejaculate the cry of joy, that arouses the dead and the wise in a new dawn? Say, who else could return the memory of life to men with a torn hope? They call us cotton heads, and coffee men, and oily men. They call us men of death. But we are the men of the dance whose feet only gain power when they beat the hard soil.

Black Woman

Naked woman, black woman

Clothed with your colour which is life,
with your form which is beauty!

In your shadow I have grown up; the
gentleness of your hands was laid over my eyes.

And now, high up on the sun-baked
pass, at the heart of summer,
at the heart of noon,
I come upon you, my Promised Land,
And your beauty strikes me to the heart
like the flash of an eagle.

Naked woman, dark woman

Firm-fleshed ripe fruit, sombre raptures
of black wine, mouth making lyrical my mouth
Savannah stretching to clear horizons,
savannah shuddering beneath the East Wind's
eager caresses

Prayer To Masks

Masks! Oh Masks!
Black mask, red mask,
you black and white masks,
Rectangular masks through
whom the spirit breathes,
I greet you in silence!
And you too,
my panterheaded ancestor.
You guard this place,
that is closed to any feminine laughter,
to any mortal smile.
You purify the air of eternity,
here where I breathe
the air of my fathers.
Masks of maskless faces,
free from dimples and wrinkles.
You have composed this image,
this my face that bends
over the altar of white paper.
In the name of your image,
listen to me!
Now while the Africa of despotism is dying –
it is the agony of a pitiable princess,
Just like Europe to whom
she is connected through the naval.
Now turn your immobile eyes
towards your children who have been called
And who sacrifice their lives
like the poor man his last garment
So that hereafter
we may cry ‘here’
at the rebirth of the world
being the leaven
that the white flour needs.
For who else would teach
rhythm to the world that has died
of machines and cannons?
For who else should ejaculate
the cry of joy,
that arouses the dead
and the wise in a new dawn?
Say, who else could return
the memory of life
to men with a torn hope?
They call us cotton heads,
and coffee men,
and oily men.
They call us men of death.
But we are the men of the dance
whose feet only gain power
when they beat the hard soil.