That Was Our Father’s Generation

For the poet Aimé Césaire

Last night I thought of Aimé Césaire, someone people respected.Last night I thought of all those who have returned to their  homelandsTheir grief-laden gazes are filled with anticipation.Aimé Césaire, I truly don’t know how long the road to our  homelands is.But I know we have to return.No matter how far the road is.Aimé Césaire, in your black consciousness I’ve seenyour compassion for this world.Because all individual lives who were intimate with you—black or white, red or yellow—believed your poems were the departure and return of a race.Aimé Césaire, today Africa’s hunger still opens its hopeless mouth.I used to believe in God’s fairnessbut there are so many unfortunate people living in the world;fairness and justice have yet to descend upon them.Aimé Césaire, because of you I think of my Nuosu ancestors and  native land.I think of the mountains that stretch as far as the eye can see, and  all the deep rivers there.And of the waban houses, the herds of cows, sheep, and goats,and children with their eyes wide open.Forgive me, it’s only now, in front of the departed ancestors that  I realizeour existing wisdom has already declined and thatour dreams vanished long ago in a so-called civilized sky.Bi’A’Shilaze’s language approaches death in this season of unfamiliar  steel and concrete.And we’re going further and further from our beginnings.Yes, Aimé Césaire, I’m proud of my father’s generation.When they were children they could recite the ancientmaxims and proverbs that resolved tribal disputes.Their eyes were sharp like eagles’.Yet their confident gazes were calm as lakes.Their women were reserved women.Each posture of the dulohxo dance could make the land roll its  silver-white halos.That was our father’s generation: they liked quick-draw guns, cherished fine horses like Dali Azong,and believed in sacred traditions and ancestral strength.Their incomparable storytelling abilities stemmed from thousands  of years of being summoned in tribal ceremonies.They loved life, and more importantly, they didn’t fear death.Yes, Aimé Césaire, my father’s generation never lost their  recognition of rank or values.They were similarly proud of their ancestors. Because countless  sages and virtuouspeople were recorded in the family trees they memorized and  recited.They were barefoot, as agile as leopards, swift as antelopes.In battle they leapt across boundless mountains and canyons.Their muntjac-like sense of touch could penetrate the pre-dawn  mists.They were sons of eagles and leopards.They stood on the tall peaks and their hero’s knots were burning  flames.They were robust forms molded by salt and the invisible mountain  winds.From the day they were born, they buried freedom and dignity  in their bonesThey were the last remaining great sons of natureafter the age when the unique Nuosu epics were created.Aimé Césaire, you haven’t died. Your silhouette still walks forward  on the road home.You won’t be lonely. Walking with you are tens of thousands of  peoplereturning to their homelands and the souls who wish to return  to their native lands.