Your children, prostitutes are they?
Bastards are your descendants.
The wet bleeds of that starved face.
Mother Africa, dry not your rivers, cry!
If must you cry enough of troubles
then here must troubles build a dais.
Enough of the streams upon that cheek
in abundance, sorrows so bent.
God's grace shall prevail
and god's lures shall fail.
Mop away those streams
and cast the subtled miners
whom last has betrayed your seedlings.
For one more time, cry!, beloved Africa
and harvest all your sorrows
behind the curtain of the chief hoe.