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Africa my 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, my Africa Africa of brave fighters in old grasslands Africa that my grandmother sings about By the faraway river I have never met you But your blood runs in my veins Your beautiful black blood that waters the fields The blood from your hard work The sweat from your labor The labor from your enslavement Africa, tell me, Africa Is this your back that stands straight This back that never breaks under the weight of shame This back shaking with red scars And refusing the whip under the midday sun But a serious voice answers me Eager child, that tree, young and strong That tree over there Magnificently alone among white and faded flowers That is your Africa growing again Growing patiently, stubbornly Whose fruit slowly gains The bitter taste of freedom.