The hurricane uproots everything around me, the hurricane uproots me in leaves and useless words. Whirlwinds of passion hiss silent, but peace is the tornado arid, on the escape of the rainy season. You wind burning pure wind, wind of summer, it burns you every flower, every thought compartment, when the sand dunes lies on the heart. Anvella, stop your gesture of the statue and you, children, stop your games and your laughter ivory. To you consume the item together with the body, dry scent of your flesh, the flame that lights up my night, like a pillar and as a palm tree. Inflames my lips with blood, spirit blows on the strings of my kora, the rising of my song, pure as gold shea.
(Léopold Sédar Senghor)