The sky is dark, and dark the ocean,
but darkest of all is the land.
Everything takes cover in the deep recesses of the darkness.
But the sound of the tom-tom severs the gloom with a blast of light,
and its two halves bleed like the red lips of the dawn.
The tom-tom is a mysterious sacrament of life;
it wakes the living from the deepest dreams,
it brings back the dead to dance with the living,
and the slaves emerge from their heavy stones
to resume their lives, so early interrupted.
The tom-tom intoxicates everyone like palm wine,
and all are confounded: nature and man and water and plants;
the tom-tom is a holiday and festival of life,
the tom-tom is universal resurrection.

The tom-tom thunders and a new day dawns;
everyone leaps to their feet, impelled by their irrepressible blood—
living and dead, sick and incurable—
and the dance weaves through the villages, through the savannas,
along the rivers, through the jungles,
and rises as an endless rhythm and melody
upwards, upwards, to the sun,
where from the tops of gigantic trees
the Great Father watches with a smile.

And the House of Slaves becomes a luxurious palace and arena,
where the former slaves now stride in majesty,
and, arrayed like princes of Mali,
they compete for the heart of their chosen Signare.