A Lost Dynasty (A Call To The Children Of Africa) Poem by konye ori

With our roots firmly in the soil-
we shall grow like the Iroko tree, to the pride of the forest
In the plague of our night-
we shall cry like crickets and ribbit like frogs
until day breaks before us

Yes, hunger whips us and her cane touches our bones
Yes, the drums of civil war are sounding
and we are stepping to its rhythm, in tears and blood
Yes, our chiefs are sick with the corruption-fever
and they have sent on exile the medicine man and his medicine

But we shall, like the Nyong River, run through the forest
and savannahs, we shall flow over those rocks
and filter through the pebbles until we pour into the Gulf of Guinea
-sparkling under the happy-yellow Sun

Yes, mama Africa-
wooed with riches and handed the fortune bag of nature
- Lover of the Sun-god
who bore us in the heat of her passion
-as heirs of the earth

And this heritage, we must preserve;
for in it grows-
the herbs that will heal us, again

Hold hands, children of Africa
From Tunis to Cape Town
And from Boosaaso to Dakar
We must, a lost dynasty recover.