African woman, on the paths of Lisbon
Translated from Portuguese. Read the original →
Paulo Muhongo · Poem
You, exiled from the womb of your land,
like so many Marys of Africa,
now live on foreign ground,
a child in your arms
and the whole world on your shoulders.
From the sweat that insists on falling from your brow
grow the fruits that feed your little boy.
It is for him that you rise before dawn,
it is for him that you run,
from van to van,
from shared taxi to crowded metro,
as if time were always scarce
and dreams a silent urgency.
Lisbon laughs at its June festivals,
but you dance to another music —
the music of survival.
Between the smell of sardines and sweet basil,
you carry the weight of silence,
of absence, of hope.
When will you stop?
When will you breathe deeply,
look at the sky and say: I too deserve joy?
For even being Eve,
you are a daughter of the Creator.
And you have the right to rest,
to laughter,
to light.
Let me be that Adam who knows how to give you rest.
Let me be the breeze that soothes your soul,
worn out by the brutality of life.
May you find in me the support and the shelter
you always sought in so many Adams,
but who, each time you gave yourself,
left you only a bitter taste.
