Africa my Africa
Africa of proud warriors in the ancestral savannah,
Africa my grandmother sings of
Beside her distant river
I have never seen you
But my gaze is full of your blood
Your black blood spilt over the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your toil
The toil of your slavery
The slavery of your children.

Africa, tell me Africa
Are you the back that bends
Lies down under the weight of humbleness?
The trembling back striped red
That says yes to the sjambok on the road of noon
Solemnly a voice answers me
"Impetuous child, that young and sturdy tree
That tree that grows
There splendidly alone among white and faded flowers
Is Africa, your Africa." It put forth new shoots
With patience and stubbornness put forth new shoots
Slowly its fruits grow to have
The bitter taste of liberty