I would say storm. I would say river. I would say tornado. I would say leaf. I would say tree. I would be drenched by all rain, moistened by all dews. I would roll frenetic blood on the slow current of the eye of words turned into mad horses into fresh children into clots into vestiges of temples into precious stones remote enough to discourage miners. Whoever would not understand me would not understand any better the roaring of a tiger.

• Aimé Cesaire, Notebook of a return to the native land