November
And the oar is rooted in its waiting for a new land. Love for you,
Oceania, is a rag tied to a mast, a coconut palm of fog at your side,
Oceania in your shadow which is like a cathedral commemorating
the uncivilized and I tame the waves of your robes Asia and Europe in our childhoods Asia a coral polyp living and feeding on itself, between sky and battle, which Europe is a field of nails. No longer hearing the rusted stream of wild butterflies on a thick day. Ever more fierce, the elections of assassins in the beautiful cancerous rain. O the loveliest rain in which to pile up our skins, the loveliest O fingers of lianas in the brush of the ringing desert Africa. The final mission was to mislead the word through the rich deafness of scorched Tropics. Like a summation of memory—intoxicated fruits in the mute desire of the banana trees.
____________
Edouard Glissant
The Collected Poetry
University of Minnesota Press
2005
