Father Africa! At a token ignorance,
You have given your inheritance:
To strangers you gave so much.
White fellows who did not eat in our dish.
Thou, who hath the spirit of poetry;
Unto thee today I bow to call
To the service and worship of poetry.
I entreat and bid thee to my call.
I, who will die
And entombed under a stone
Amid of sands I'll lie
I'll be too conscious to groan.
He tries not to meditate evils
Nor with his hands sordidly paddles
He who knows he is ephemeral
He disports not himself at funeral.
Like these innocent children,
We gathered submitting our rights
To you, these honourable men
Who have led us to this place of plights.