Mother Africa

By no mistake or chance did heaven’s host
Decide to plant me on this southern coast.

For you have fed me from you breast.
Each night you laid my frame to rest.
Your emerald trees have whispered tales to me.
And heaven’s rose has turned to blood your sea.
The thorny hills, the oak-tree’s bole,
Has shaped the texture of my soul.
And winds that raised my childhood’s kite,
Compelled my sapling soul to write.

But now the trees and winds and fields
Have said: “Repay the debt of love.”

Go meet
The poor with open hands;
And lift
Your pen to write of pride.
And trust
That we were planted here,
By God,
With purpose and design.