"Here I am in your woman's country

I am aware of your silences

Under the straw of the roofs

And this dug stone that is used to grind

Your powder from colombo

I borrowed your madras

But your memory belongs to you

It's one of our mysterious languages

What was Creole born?

The pain of saying

And the violence of love

Here I arrived in your woman's country

In the flag of your hair

To the most intimate of your tides

What if I eat with my hand

It's to please your gods

They moistened my desire

Of your blood ritual

And here I am flaunting the red of your lips

Like a gift that we dare to open

Becoming the drizzle of your eyes

And the porcelain of your dreams

Here I am in your woman's country

Tending my voice to your voice

Like a forbidden fruit

An island pomegranate in the hands of the sea

Here I am

I am not the nigga

You are not Indian

We are the sea flesh

Of all the crossings

At the mercy of love

Mixing

From the chaos

From the unspeakable desire to invent the other

Then swallow it

Scratch it to see it better

Bittersweet finally to be less lonely

In front of his mirror

In the mirage of its skin

So here I'm

In your land of women and silent rain

Where nobility is to mix"

(Ernest Pepin, The Bel Incendie, Bruno Doucey editions, p. 39)

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