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Poetry

You Will Tell Them

By Mariem Mint Derwich
Translated from French by Emma Ramadan
Mauritania, its geography, and its women come to life in vivid detail in this poem by Mariem Mint Derwich.

You will tell them, my country,
you will tell them of your daughter, daughter among your daughters,
daughter among your men,
you will tell them of the winds that engendered her,
your winds of the East and your winds of the sea.
You will tell them that around her ankles she wears your dunes,
your tales,
your griots,
your notes of the moon,
your notes of the sun.
You will say to them that she is your daughter,
born and born again,
with each dawn,
in each song from the mosques.

You will tell them, my country,
of the lineage, the name of your people,
the scent of her mother,
the laugh of stone walls,
over there, in the city that sleeps.
You will tell them how she offered her hands
to the cliffs of Amogjjar,
to the walls of the big city,
to the songs of the rambling night.

You will say to them, to your people,
that she is your name,
in the sudden splendor of a dawn,
in the fold of a riverbed,
in the liquid finesse of a rivulet,
you will sing to them that she is the daughter of clouds,
daughter of phantom words.
You will tell them that she carries love,
love,
love

You will write on the dusty paths,
you will write that she is the ocher color of her memories,
that she birthed dreams,
sons of man to whom she whispered her name, their womb.
You will say to them, you will say to them, the encampments,
that she is blood and flesh, blood

blood

You will tell them that she is the daughter of encounters,
mixed daughter, roots daughter, mango daughter, date daughter,
you will say to them that she sleeps in the calabash of worlds,
that she is the milk that runs over skin,
you will say to them that she has eyes open, your eyes,
you will say to them that she bears your name, your names, your incantations,
you will tell them, her people, that she sleeps under cemetery stones,
in the prayer of those who rest and hope.

You will inscribe in their blazing gazes, your name,
my name,
their names

And, in the infinite that is, you will become a country within . . .


© Mariem Mint Derwich. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2021 by Emma Ramadan. All rights reserved.

English French (Original)

You will tell them, my country,
you will tell them of your daughter, daughter among your daughters,
daughter among your men,
you will tell them of the winds that engendered her,
your winds of the East and your winds of the sea.
You will tell them that around her ankles she wears your dunes,
your tales,
your griots,
your notes of the moon,
your notes of the sun.
You will say to them that she is your daughter,
born and born again,
with each dawn,
in each song from the mosques.

You will tell them, my country,
of the lineage, the name of your people,
the scent of her mother,
the laugh of stone walls,
over there, in the city that sleeps.
You will tell them how she offered her hands
to the cliffs of Amogjjar,
to the walls of the big city,
to the songs of the rambling night.

You will say to them, to your people,
that she is your name,
in the sudden splendor of a dawn,
in the fold of a riverbed,
in the liquid finesse of a rivulet,
you will sing to them that she is the daughter of clouds,
daughter of phantom words.
You will tell them that she carries love,
love,
love

You will write on the dusty paths,
you will write that she is the ocher color of her memories,
that she birthed dreams,
sons of man to whom she whispered her name, their womb.
You will say to them, you will say to them, the encampments,
that she is blood and flesh, blood

blood

You will tell them that she is the daughter of encounters,
mixed daughter, roots daughter, mango daughter, date daughter,
you will say to them that she sleeps in the calabash of worlds,
that she is the milk that runs over skin,
you will say to them that she has eyes open, your eyes,
you will say to them that she bears your name, your names, your incantations,
you will tell them, her people, that she sleeps under cemetery stones,
in the prayer of those who rest and hope.

You will inscribe in their blazing gazes, your name,
my name,
their names

And, in the infinite that is, you will become a country within . . .


© Mariem Mint Derwich. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2021 by Emma Ramadan. All rights reserved.

Tu leur raconteras

Tu leur raconteras, pays mien,
tu leur raconteras ta fille, fille parmi tes filles,
fille parmi tes hommes,
tu leur raconteras les vents qui l’ont fait naître,
tes vents de l’Est et tes vents de la mer.
Tu leur diras qu’à ses chevilles elle porte tes dunes,
tes contes,
tes griots,
tes notes de lune,
tes notes de soleil.
Tu leur diras qu’elle est fille tienne,
née et née encore,
à chaque aube,
dans chaque chant des mosquées.

Tu leur raconteras, pays mien,
la lignée, le nom des siens,
l’odeur de sa mère,
le rire des murs de pierre,
là bas dans la ville qui dort.
Tu leur raconteras qu’elle a posé ses mains,
en obole aux parois d’Amogjjar,
aux murs de la grande ville,
aux chants de la nuit bavarde.

Tu leur diras, aux siens,
qu’elle est ton nom,
dans la splendeur soudaine d’une aube,
dans le repli d’une batha,
dans la subtilité liquide d’un marigot,
tu leur chanteras qu’elle est fille des nuages,
fille des mots fantômes.
Tu leur raconteras qu’elle porte l’amour,
l’amour,
l’amour

Tu écriras dans la poussière des pistes,
tu écriras qu’elle a la couleur ocre de ses mémoires,
qu’elle a enfanté des rêves,
des petits d’homme auxquels elle a soufflé son nom matrice.
Tu leur diras, tu leur diras, les campements,
qu’elle est sang et chair, sang

sang

Tu leur raconteras qu’elle est fille des rencontres,
fille métisse, fille racines, fille mangue, fille datte,
tu leur diras qu’elle dort dans la calebasse des mondes,
qu’elle est le lait qui court sur la peau,
tu leur diras qu’elle est yeux ouverts, tes yeux,
tu leur diras qu’elle porte ton nom,tes noms, tes incantations,
tu leur raconteras, aux siens, qu’elle dort sous les pierres des cimetières,
dans la prière de ceux qui restent et espèrent.

Tu inscriras à leurs regards brûlés, ton nom,
mon nom,
leurs noms

Et, dans l’infini qui est, tu deviendras pays intime . . .

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