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....