In the silver mist I hear the sound of a child
Weeping, ebony face streaked with tears reflecting
The colours of an ancient sun revealing
hands uplifted over the whitened bones of dreams
And visions unfulfilled, prophecies of days to come
Tears moisten the soil, the earth trembles
And I hear Africa’s sound, a rattling
Can these blanched remains of hopeful lives
Rise and run to claim the promises that perished in blood
Sodden soils tremble to the rattle that is quickening
The winds on the dusty face of the little seer
As he stands in the desolation of his fathers
They sleep, but their hopes arise to the sound
Of rattling hope that will not go away
Memories of breath departing rumble
Calling to the winds of heaven to return and release
Pent up promises stored for generations of children who
Weeping, with tears of joy watch sinews, skin and flesh
Appear on a day of resurrection and see
For the first time that this rattling is not the sound
Of mourning but an africa arising resplendent.
