Sons Of Africa

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Sons of ancient soil
Sons of ancient moon
Sons of our old mother
Who wake before dawn
Milking the arid tongue of father

So much love have we
From your arms that oozes
Layers of tents
In the rain, we were warmth
And this rain of our soil
In the sun, we were sheilded
And this sun of our age

O sons of Africa
Grasses are bowing for your strenght
Ridges are eaulogizing your breath
Do not whack your canine on irony
Stand on your shore
And polish your feather
The shinning black


– Abbas Abubaker

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