“the forest remembers that the last word can only be the flaming cry of the bird of ruins in the bowl of the storm” — Aimé Césaire Copy Share Image
It is no use painting the foot of the tree white, the strength of the bark cries out from beneath the paint. — Aime Cesaire Copy Share Image
Africa, help me to go home, carry me like an aged child in your arms. Undress me and wash me. Strip me of all… — Aime Cesaire Copy Share Image
“the thick stream of air hauled toward the summits first the great horses of noise reared against the sky then sluggishly the great limp… — Aimé Césaire Copy Share Image
Poetic knowledge is born in the great silence of scientific knowledge. — Aime Cesaire Copy Share Image
I would rediscover the secret of great communications and great combustions. I would say storm. I would say river. I would say tornado. I… — Aime Cesaire Copy Share Image
“like the scorpion's question mark drawn in the pollen on the canvas of the sky and of our brains at midnight” — Aimé Césaire Copy Share Image
“the forest remembers that the last word can only be the flaming cry of the bird of ruins in the bowl of the storm” — Aimé Césaire Copy Share Image
When I turn on my radio, when I hear that Negroes have been lynched in America, I say that we have been lied to:… — Aime Cesaire Copy Share Image
Beware, my body and my soul, beware above all of crossing your arms and assuming the sterile attitude of the spectator, for life is… — Aime Cesaire Copy Share Image
