They have cut the throat of our goal,
Separated our omen with their arrow and bow,
I will not fight the wicked enemy, but kiss the blessed foe,
Majestically they gait with the sound of their tiptoe.
The Africa Child speaks in anger like quiescence feet of the wild bear,
They never appreciated the colour, but I pray the beauty of our tears is seen,
The diadem in our heart is felt,
And our beatific idealistic opinion is susceptible.
The glory of the departed soul,
Rolls down, like bleeding from the nose,
They have destroyed what we’ve sown,
They proposed how we will glow,
But God disposes how we will go.
Like the sea-shore bow to the steps of the sun,
Like the ocean acknowledge the smile of the wind,
So also will our sweat hug its victory,
I may blench, yet belch to your disgust,
I may be timid, yet handshake your distort.
I will shine in tolerance,
Devastate insurmountable encumbrance,
Dance to my mellifluous consonance,
And then exult in exuberance.
When my confidence emanated,
My orchestrated moment is titivated,
With my Holy-writ, I will gain my feet,
And smile with my golden teeth.
I am an embodiment of an Africa Child.