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Africa
Africa Africa my Africa Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs 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 Africa, tell me Africa Is this your back that is unbent This back that never breaks under the weight of humilation This back trembling with red scars And saying no to the whip under the midday sun But a grave voice answers me Impetuous child that tree, young and strong That tree over there Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers That is your Africa springing up anew springing up patiently, obstinately Whose fruit bit by bit acquires The bitter taste of liberty.
Africa Africa, my Africa Africa of brave fighters in ancient grasslands Africa that my grandmother sings about By the faraway river I have never known you But your blood is in my veins Your beautiful black blood that waters the fields The blood from your sweat The sweat from your labor The labor from your slavery Africa, tell me, Africa Is this your back that is unbent This back that never breaks under shame This back shaking with red scars And saying no to the whip under the midday sun But a serious voice answers me Rash child, that tree, young and strong That tree over there Standing alone among white and faded flowers That is your Africa growing again Growing patiently, stubbornly Whose fruit slowly gains The bitter taste of freedom.