O old Africa, look at your son!
His features are engraved by the sun
He is wiry like pine saplings
Free like the air that carries the wings
He sleeps inside a canvas tent
Which is patched and spent
His wide eyes gaze at a star
He captures a butterfly with a jar
His tongue, with amaze, is numb
Hearing raindrops when they drum
His feet are dwindled by the hot sand
Sticky mud roughens his curious hand
With his saliva, he draws on a wall
With darning socks, he plays football
His favorite movie is a blue sky free of clouds
His popular music is chirps and wild sounds
He ruminates the ripples on the river
That quenches the brown continent forever
Among tropical plants, he always weaves
Escaping from a storm that juggles the leaves
He fights poverty, illness and spells
By singing anthems on deserted wells
He goes to a mountain that he must climb
To get some herbs and a sack of lime
There, he meets a clairvoyant to read his palm
He tells him a fortune that is better than balm
"Success and luck will be always at your side
With your achievements, you will be Africa's pride"
