In the cemetery of history, I tread,

Where Africa lies, her spirit dead.

On her tomb, a solemn plea,

“If only she’d sing her African song,” we see.

Standing atop a mountain of the slain,

Amidst the lifeless, a haunting refrain.

Distracted, I hear children’s cries,

Mothers screaming, their voices rise.

But no one hears, the fathers gone,

Off to mines, their song a mournful song.

Digging for gold, they dug their graves,

Children and mothers left as slaves.

The African song, once sung with pride,

Now silenced, its speakers denied.

Not Mandela, nor Biko’s call,

Their freedom granted by soil’s thrall.

I speak of women, brave and bold,

Men who stand against lies untold.

Against violence, discrimination’s sway,

And the poverty that shadows the day.

But if we cannot sing, cannot speak,

How else can we truthfully seek?

Educate, support, become as one,

If silence reigns, our unity undone.

Perhaps the instruments are lost,

Music’s melody, a price too high, a cost.

Remembering the days of streets ablaze,

With signs of truth, our voices raised.

Protesting lies, dancing in the night,

Burning with the fuel of truth’s light.

But now, alas, the song is dead,

In the silence, Africa’s tears are shed.