Frogs invariably proliferate in a flood. My countries, crass latitudes and borders of hell, often encounter these blessed times. Winds and rains. Frogs. Toads. Pelobates and other pelodytes. Inflated rice paddies and the unmistakable stench of excavated death. Excavated lifted battered returned. The plague prowls and help is standing by to fill a few wallets. The world’s tears make good neighbors. Definite solidarity, international s’il-vous-plaît, on the silt of humanitarian empathy. The cross is red, the cross to bear. Time is food. But I know too well that none is more delicious than the amphibian popultry that infests my shitty lands. This frog, I chow it down without my tears of rage and shame, I chow it down over my disasters and my death as a digestive. The gecko got it right, he who is careful not to get involved in the triumph of these modern and croaking beasts.
© Jean-Luc Raharimanana. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by Antoine Bargel and Alexis Pernsteiner. All rights reserved.
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