A triadic ritual.

Give me back my black dolls so they dispel the image of pale whores merchants of love who stroll back and forth on the boulevard of my ennui

Give me back my black dolls so they dispel the eternal image the hallucinatory image of stacked large-assed puppets whose miserable mercy the wind carries to the nose

Give me the illusion I will no longer have to satisfy the sprawling need of mercies snoring beneath the world’s unconscious disdain

Give me back my black dolls so that I can play with them the naïve games of my instinct which has remained in the shadow of its laws my courage recovered my audacity I become myself once again myself once more out of what I was Yesterday yesterday without complexity yesterday when the hour of uprooting came

Excerpt of Limbé, poem by Léon Gontran-Damas.