My stomarch is rumbling with Colonial Constipation. Thouh missionaries are written all over my african skin. I dream of another better day to ring and recite this poem. Africa my mother land. Africa my wonder land. I cry the tears of sorrow. I cry tears of joy. I cry tears of self independs. For better days shall come. I see someone rising from the povo-rical dust. To end the relm of dictatorship. To end the diarrhea of political propaganda. When people are given only the intestines. When they eat of the steack. But i see a blessed Afrika. Asia massaging her shoulders. Brasil looking from affar. I see four hail stakes of hay bowing before Afrika. Madagascar saying i was always with you dad. Alstralia and new zeland ran away. But His hand Jehovah Shall streatch to Afrika. GOD BLESS.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is a fine poem. Bien!