Τhe State kept its eyes closed
when they sold you at your thirteen, a body,
when the wretched slave-trader raped you
behind closed doors, melting your petals,
swelling you so that you bring for him kids,
then to breastfeed them - your mouth still
has the smell of milk of your mom’s breasts*.
I don’t cry for you, girl Chantigiatou Mani,
I’m but a coward poet, I should cry for that
I was never there to support you, oh flower.
You, alone, stood up on your shaky legs
and accused bravely our State as guilty,
a State which didn’t wipe even your blood.
You waved your weak arms just to react,
thus you forced the north wind to blow
justice of tempestuous overthrow, as David,
throwing the hubris to hit him on its forehead.
I follow you, as I do follow St Dionysius
who holds his cut-off head and walks upright,
bravely. Only the first step confronts difficulties.
© JosephJosephides
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