I am the last of my people, no one left to talk to. Yesterday my wife was still by my side. Together, our early years we were calling to mind.

My dearly beloved has just passed away. We never had a child, we never dared. The world – our world – has changed in so many ways.

I remember my father coming home one night, shattered as he’d seen a White man. That was a thousand moons ago. The sky above isn’t really the same since then.

We used to dwell as tenants of the Earth, as the Elders say. But along came others who said “now this place is ours.” What was there for us to answer? We had a million words for the million plants, birds, fishes, mammals. We had none for “property” and “owner.”

I am the last of my people. All that my father taught me will disappear with me, all that my father held after his own grandfather.

I cannot write. My language is beautiful and complex, yet it is to be sung in the wind and drawn in the sand.

And tomorrow, when I’ve disappeared too, there’ll be something missing all of you.

Félicie Dubois

Traduit du français par Gwilym Tonnerre