A sonnet reflecting on the gateway to the Atlantic and the spirit of Négritude.
The Goree waves beat slow against the shore,
A somber song of chains and parting breath,
But Senegal has opened wide the door,
To trade that sorrow for a life past death.
In Dakar’s streets, the mbalax rhythms rise,
Where griots tell the tales of olden wars,
Under the baobab, the village is wise,
And counts its blessings by the ocean stars.
The Négritude of Senghor’s dreaming mind,
Still paints the soul in colors rich and deep,
Leaving the scars of colony behind,
To find the promises the people keep.
With Teranga, the welcome is your soul,
A piece of grace that makes the weary whole.
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