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The only pages I long for are those from my wanderings around the Jardin d’Agronomie Tropicale (where this and the last two images were taken). I had spent half a day there specifically to write about its dark history during the universal expositions. All I can recall now is the poem I wrote, a rare occurrence as I don’t often write poetry.

I dream of ancestors,
bought to tend their crops
in Paris gardens.
Of hushed gatherings

after evening prayer

by Pont Tonkinois.
Felled bamboos,
sharpened points,
a silent cry.

From swallowing sleep, rises

Black—the coloniser’s blindspot.

 

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