The old man sits beside the Council Chamber, stretches out his hand <br />The officers pass by, their minds on paper <br />The small shields of security drawn around him by the month <br />Don’t protect him from the night and dusts of winter <br /> <br />The land used up and over, cattle die up to their necks in mud <br />Choppers cross the border to machine-gun ivory <br />The villages have lost their trees and cannot nurse back any <br />So many children science left, to mothers of this Africa <br /> <br />They wait within prefabricated words and walls <br />For the big black pots to fill with food of conscience <br />And when the meal is over, the bells of cities ring <br />For shifts of building bricks in export industry <br /> <br />The shopping mall is crowded when the pay is out <br />The queues of supplication jumped by family or favour <br />The dust of town is somehow of a much more bitter flavour <br />Than the early morning milk of Mother Africa <br /> <br />And I’m singing of the beauty of her eyes - <br />I’m thankful for the way she changed my life - <br />Of stars that fade as people rise and build their fires <br />In the early morning mists of Mother Africa.<br /><br />Frank Bana<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-of-mother-africa/
