CLAD in gowns of dismal glare,
She shows a plaintive sight,
Like a night that bears no moon,
And bears its skies their fires quenched.
Her forehead bears the bonds of blood,
Her trampled face does tell her plight,
Her stomach drums distorted sounds,
That haunts her soul in every way.
She wails the wails for fear of poisonous plants,
Transplanted in our soils,
All that taste their stinging fruits,
Shall die and leave no bone.
She wails the wails of now,
For fear the sun shall also die,
And leave her greenness yellow,
And leave her children blind.
She wails the wails of now,
For fear not much the trigger,
But so much the button,
That spells the world its form.
And so she wails my Africa,
And so she wails my mother,
That all might hear her story
And end her children’s strife
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