Amazigh is my mother tongue Understood by no one. Pregnant with meaning, Who can dance to its rhythms ? Alone, I struggle on. My tongue is being slowly strangled To death, And yet lives on, Speaks tirelessly to those who cover their ears So as not to hear. Thirst should be slaked Amazigh is my mother tongue. Rejected by everyone. Some say that it is but a dream And forsaking us, add “One that will never come true.” Others mutter “Your tongue has a painful and bitter past and people do not want to share your sufferings” Amazigh is my mother tongue It longs to break the wall of silence To set hearts ablaze And make them flame like stars united In the heavens above.
Ali Sadki Azayku (Taroudant, 1942–2004), from “Mother tongue”, translated from the French by Wendy Ouali in: “Poems for the Millenium. Book of North African Literature”, edited by Pierre Joris and Habib Tengour
