Africa, my Africa
Africa of the proud warriors in the ancestral savannas
Africa of whom my grandmother sings
On the banks of the distant river
I have never known you
But your blood flows in my veins.
Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your work
The work of your slavery
The slavery of your children.
Africa, tell me, Africa
Is this you? this back that is bent?
This back that breaks under the weight of humiliation
And saying yes to the whip under the midday sun?
But a grave voice answers me
Impetuous son that tree young and strong
That tree there
In splendid loneliness amidst white and fade flowers
That is Africa, your Africa
That sprouts again patiently, obstinately
And it's fruit gradually acquires
The bitter taste of liberty....
Manage Your Items