How long have the poison-bards of power
Flayed our living souls
O men of words
How long have they pierced our hearts
And stabbed our pages full of holes
In vain
How long, despite the censor, did we speak
Clothed only in our blood
Surrounded by stupidity
How long must we leave the jungle
For this exiled wood, this distant war
Sad soldiers, on a cruel road
In spite of all we stand
Our pens like arrows in our hands
Sad singers, captive from afar
Calm or aflame, we tell the truth
From exile, we write reality
O poets, is flight our fate?
As a bird slips the fowler’s snare
And soars into the air
As a priest fleeing sin becomes a saint
So it is better that we be gone
Before we are undone
Writers! Any road is better than none
by Jean-Louis N'Tadi, trans. and abridged by Carole Angier