Open the door and let me in, fellow countryman, to speak about two or three things. I'm referring to you, Editor. Mercy, Africa, African moss, sipping gloom among the ripples, whose country's prosperity was extracted at the sound of a whistle, we wag our tails on seeing you. You stubbed your toe and felt the pain, a slip of the tongue and they stomped on you. Mercy, then, whose kingship is now like an ostrich, with its head in the dust confronted by your force. For a long time now we've been calling, Africa. Hear our wailing, then, Africa, Garden of Africa. Your crop was consumed and scattered by birds, but you stood firm and never left us. Our voices are hoarse from imploring you; we criss-crossed the land calling for you; we came back there without tongues. We raised wailings calling to you, cheeks chafed from crying. All the earth's nations profit from you, they come from the north, they come from the south, from the east and from the west. Quiet! Quiet, poet of ours, stop stretching your legs out. Let me interrupt you before you're finished extracting the bile. Africa stayed still! She's nowhere else: look how the grass continues to sprout. Look at the springs still bubbling with water. Look everywhere, all's as it should be! Show me the mountain that packed up and walked. No! You're scratching your head—who are you to wail? You must come back. Because as I see it, you have all the signs that mark a person as dumb. Please seek the seers to tell you straight what the ancient of days divines (a whole volume!), lest rain fall some place else and plagues take your family. Raise dust then till you're dirty, dark one of Africa, like Moses quitting Egypt.