Weep, Beloved Black Brother
O black man, beast of burden through the centuries,
Your ashes scattered to the winds of heaven,
There was a time when you built burial temples
In which your murderers sleep their final sleep.
Hunted down and tracked, driven from
your homes.
Beaten in battles where brute force
prevailed.
Barbaric centuries of rape and carnage
That offered you the choice of death or
slavery.
Patrice Lumumba |
And other deaths waylaid you, burning
fevers,
Jaws of wild beasts, the cold, unholy
coils
Of snakes who crushed you gradually to
death.
Then came the white man, more clever,
tricky, cruel,
He took your gold in trade for shoddy
stuff,
He raped your women, made your warriors
drunk,
Penned up you sons and daughters on his
ships.
The tom-toms hummed through all the
villages,
Spreading afar the mourning, the wild
grief
At news of exile to a distant land
Where cotton is God and the dollar
King.
Condemned to enforced labor, beasts of
burden,
Under a burning sun from dawn to dusk,
So that you might forget you are a man
They taught your to sing the praises of
their God,
And these hosannas, tuned in to your
sorrows,
Gave you the hope of a better world to
come.
But in your human heart you only asked
The right to live, your share of
happiness.
Beside your fire, your eyes reflect
your dreams and suffering,
You sang the chants that gave voice to
your blues.
And sometimes to your joys, when sap
rose in the trees
And you danced wildly in the damp of
evening.
And out of this sprang forth,
magnificent,
Alive and virile, like a bell of brass
Sounding your sorrow, that powerful
music,
Jazz, now loved, admired throughout the
world,
Compelling the white man to respect,
Announcing in clear loud tones from
this time on
This country no longer belongs to him.
And thus you made the brothers of your
race
Lift up their heads to see clear,
straight ahead
The happy future bearing deliverance.
The banks of a great river in flower
with hope
Are yours from this time onward.
The earth and all its riches
Are yours from this time onward.
The blazing sun in the colorless sky
Dissolves our sorrow in a wave of
warmth.
Its burning rays will help to dry
forever
The flood of tears shed by our
ancestors,
Martyrs of the tyranny of the masters.
And on this earth which you will always
love
You will make the Congo a nation, happy
and free,
In the very heart of vast Black Africa.
Crying a river of tears doesn't help
RispondiEliminaJust keep your head up and one day,one day.