I will write you the poetry that you want to hear
About beauty and truth and the love you hold dear
About many-coloured flowers kissed by the beaks of many coloured birds
Of fortresses reaching proudly to the sky
Proclaiming ours is a land of virtue and truth
I will not write of race or religion or creed
I will not write of problems or secrets or fear
But I will write of the joys of posting a letter, to the president who strives for better
I will write of reading my paper, with a smile on my face, another case dismissed, a murder, a rape.
I will not write of injustice that is not my call
I will not write of the struggle I wasn’t born
Of the lives that were lost to provide me with freedom
I will not write of the cost to the family the children
Of a thousand sorrowful songs I can only dream
I am a white man I cannot fight all the wrongs.
I will not write of an ache that goes deeper than the soul
Of an ache that pierces the generations of Africa like a hole
I will not write of the war cries I hear in the night
The children of freedom who continue to fight and to fight
I will instead write of the cool air in your cars
As you turn away from a beggar asking for alms
I will not write of the aching, the aching in my bones
For Africa is crying, Africa my home
I will not write what has been written of revolution songs
That the blind man sings as he takes up arms
Of these things I will not write.
For Africa is bleeding and you choose to ignore
The scars you gave, the scars that she bore
Africa is bleeding and I must admit
That I am a white man, a redneck, a wit
And I choose to embrace the land of my birth
The land I’ll fight for with bullets and verse.
But I will write of the beauty of another sunrise
As the moon descends and Africa opens her sleepy eyes
I will write of the lion proud as can be
Of the slithering snake and the bumble bee
I will write you a song, a sweet lullaby
To end the nightmares of a lands broken cry.
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