Rise, will we rise
Rise, We Will Rise
Rise, we will rise.
Though we were trampled on the red dust roads of Africa,
our roots run deeper
than the ancient baobab.
The wind may bend us,
but it cannot uproot us.
Rise, we will rise.
We crossed oceans
to clean the glittering cities of Europe,
washing floors that will never know our names.
Yet every drop of sweat
waters the dreams of our children.
Rise, we will rise.
Mocked by strangers,
beaten by neighbors,
our scars are not marks of defeat—
they are the maps
that lead us back to our strength.
Rise, we will rise.
My own father wounded me,
but pain will not become my inheritance.
Like the eagle riding the African sunrise,
I choose the sky
instead of the storm.
Rise, I will rise.
The children next door despise me
for sharing the little food on their table.
Still,
I would rather be remembered
for an open hand
than a closed heart.
Rise, I will rise.
For I have heard
the drums across the savannah.
I have seen the rivers
that never stop flowing.
I have watched the acacia
stand tall against the burning sun.
Nature whispers one truth:
Endure. Grow. Rise.
We are not the dust beneath their feet.
We are the seed within the dust.
Bury us,
and we become a forest.
Silence us,
and we become a song.
Break us,
and we become a generation
that refuses to kneel.
Rise, we will rise.
Like the sun over Kilimanjaro.
Like the roar of Victoria Falls.
Like the first rains after a long drought.
Rise, Takunda, Rise
Rise, my people.
Rise...
We will rise.
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