Africa: To My Mother

Africa my Africa
Africa of the proud warriors in the ancestral
savannas
Africa my grandmother sings
By her faraway river
I have never known you
But my gaze is full of your blood
Your good black blood dispersed over the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your work
The work of slavery
The slavery of your children
Africa tell me Africa
Is it then you that back which bends
And drops under the weight of humility
That trembling back striped red
Which says yes to the whip on the noonday roads
Then gravely a voice answers me
Impetuous son that young and robust tree
That tree down there
Splendidly alone among white faded flowers
Is Africa your Africa which sprouts again
Which resprouts patiently obstinately
Whose fruits little by little acquire
The bitter savor of liberty.