A Hooded Dream
Africa mother Africa
Africa of scrumptious haven
Slowly stretched
Into an unscrupulous savannah
Africa of whom my grandmothers
Now sits and cry
Singing her present gore
Silhouette against her ancient glory
Your blood flows on our streets
And on our streams
Your beautiful black blood
That in time past flows in our veins
Africa that birthed warriors
Of ancestral citations
Now puppets of millennium recantation
The sweats of your toils
The scars from your slavery
The cry for your freedom
How come this has now
Transformed into a mastery
Of your present folly
You whose back was bent
To pack from her plenteous plantation
Now breaks in the continuous bid
To pick form her present carnage
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