Africa my Africa
Africa of proud warriors in the ancestral Savannah.
in whom my grandmother sings
on the Bank of distant river
I've never known you
but your blood flaws in my vains
your beautiful black blood that irrigates the field.
the blood of your sweat
the sweat of your work
the work of your slavery
Africa tell me Africa
is this your back that is bent
this back breaking under the weight of humiliation
this back trembling with red scars
and saying yes to the whip under a midday sun
and a grave voice answers me
impetuous child whose tree young and stong
springing up a new
springing up patiently obstinately
whose fruit bit by bit
aquire the bitter test of liberty.
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David deop-nathan simon