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                                                                                  THE CRIES OF A NEGRO


                                                          The sound of the conch shell resounds far away

                                                          from the lofty mountains of St.Domingue.

                                                          It is the time for me slave-beast to wake up in the morning.

                                    The French colon with his slashes in my back begins his shameful day.


                                                        Mother Africa won't never hear again about  me.

                                                        From Prince, son of Gaou-Guinou king of the Aradas

                                                        now I become nothing in this land in which the bwanas

                                                         my masters hold me prisoner in this land of misery.


                                                          I have no rights to complain even to look at them.

                                                         Their fiery eyes full with hatred and racism

                                                         don't give me a chance to cry of my pains and my sufferings.

                                                         Their cruelty , their thirst of my blood  are more than raging.

                                                         They don't care about my tears, my weaning.

                                                          They want me to produce and satisfy their bestial appetite 

                                                         because of  my ebony skin color of the night

                                                          that makes them blind against me in their  beatings.  

                                                         They become enraged  and always called me " N.....r ".

                                                         I am their thing, slave in their plantation.

                                                         I have no right to look at them, they are my masters.

                                                         I am an animal  whose place is only in the fields of cotton.


                                                         The sugar cane trails lays before me as my dwelling.

                                                         My black sweat under the harsh tropical sun

                                                          constitutes my shower and my only consolation.

                                                         I  am considered as an animal being, as... nothing.


                                                         The field is my bed and the stones are my pillows.

                                                         My hoe cries over the hard land like a cock that crows.

                                                         While almost suffocated from the odor of the tobacco plants

                                                         I can not stand anymore, I become like crazy of their scents.

                                                            I am drugged and ready to die.

                                                            I am without any sense of life in myself,

                                                           I feel disgusted  and  upset to death.

                                                          I am looking for a moment to take my chance or die.


                                                         I revolt against the abuses caused to my brothers.

                                                        I can not look at their miserable living condition.

                                                         I want them to become human beings like any others.

                                                        Nobody seems to listen to me and pays no attention.


                                                        Poor slave like I am, I  can not shut up my big mouth.

                                                        I am ready, I am ready without any doubt

                                                        to flee up to the mountains towards the woods

                                                        without a gun, an arrow, not even some foods.


                                                        During the night I come down from my hideout.

                                                        I face the dogs that are ready to eat my flesh.

                                                       I run all over my master's place from the north to the south, 

                                                       I, time to time, steal a machete  and bring something to eat as fresh.


                                                          I am waiting for a day to vomit my rancor.

                                                        I want to be slave of person.                                                

                                                       I want to organize the Revolution

                                                       I am praying and impatiently waiting for that hour.


                                                        One night I flee and  I become a Negro Maroon,

                                                         hidden there under the water of the blue lagoon.                                                                                                                                 

                                                       I am waiting for the day in which my machetes, my arrows

                                                        will pierce many hearts, time of tears, time of sorrows,

                                                       time of  liberty for my brothers never seen in America,

                                                      for those Ibo, Nago, Fang, Moundong, Caplaou's sons of Africa.


                                                       Three hundred years of beatings, of martyrdom will at last end.

                                                       One day, the rocking-chair of  our masters will be our sitting place.

                                                      From the heights of La Crete a Pierrot, of the Butte Charrier's stand

                                                      to the Mahogany Mountains of VERTIERES  we will rise up in grace.


                                                     We will forge a Nation, a Nation for all enslaved Negroes.

                                                    St.Domingue will now be the Land of Freedom for all.

                                                    The cries of  our children will hit the eardrums of  our foes.

                                                   La France will regret it , Black Men like we are, we will stand tall.


                                                  So will be the oracles for the future HAITI,

                                                  having its sons tortured, humiliated without mercy

                                                  They came into the New World in chains braving sea waves

                                                   under the worst unimaginable treatments as slaves.


                                                 The day will come,  the high sea will vomit the bones of our dead.

                                                  Our voice will tenor up towards the four corners of the world

                                                   with our Alleluias  of hope sang everywhere, all around, all abroad.

                                                  Our hearts will be relieved and our red eyes will stop crying.


                                                  We will break up the gates of all hell to enter into Heaven

                                                  We will have with the Spiritual Almighty a summit.

                                                 There we will  kneel and present to God  for a blessing  our plan.

                                                 We will eradicate the cancer of SLAVERY up to death.

                                                  The bell of deliverance will toll the last day of the Marseillaise.

                                                   Mulattoes, Indigenous, Blacks, all of us together

                                                   will rise up and we will be together without bias.

                                                  The fight will begin for our survival, for our grandeur.                                                                                               


                                               It will happen On that day, November 18, 1803,

                                                the whole Saint Domingue will rejoice in victory.

                                                  The glares of the canons will resound  with their trails of lights

                                                   over the mountains and plains of  this Island in full fight.


                                                 Under the beams of the tropical sun and of the moon,                                                                                     

                                                chest open holding high our Red and Blue Flag very soon

                                                we will challenge the bullets and machine guns of the French.

                                                Like lions we will burst out from our holes and our trenches.


                                                We will make the whole West Indies trembled, shaken.

                                                We will shout "LIBERTY or DEATH" without rank broken.

                                               We will win the War of the Independence of  this country. 

                                               We will hail to the whole universe our epic  grandeur loudly.

                                                 Dessalines, Christophe, Petion... will stand tall

                                                 to celebrate, to sing the hymn of deliverance with us all.

                                                And the glory of  those titans will sound as a mighty thunder

                                               to the eardrums of all enslaved human beings for ever, for ever... 


                                              It was so on that day January 1, 1804,

                                             We created a Black Republic in the realm of the Caribbean Sea

                                              in the heart of Americas with full grace and honor

                                             and with its former  full Indian Name, We have called it HAITI.


                                             Goliath and all evil forces have bowed down before us and surrendered.

                                             The great French Armada ran and fled for their life, humiliated.

                                            Napoleon Bonaparte was crushed and was no more the universe's Master.

                                            The world destiny was reversed by those  St Dominguois fighters.

                                             They  have changed the course of history on that year 1804.

                                             They won't be anymore tears in the eyes of those Maroons.

                                              Heavens, earth will shine with the rays of a new moon, a new sun:

                                            We created the first free Black Republic of the world by the grace of God . 

                                                                                                                    Jean-Renaud Guillaume, JD, D.TH

Written for the children of Haiti and for all of human beings in thirst of Liberty and Freedom.





Listen to the voice at the bottom page for 1 minute 37 seconds and write at the top white space: "Haiti the first black independent nation". You'll be surprised.