AFRICAN CRY

 
                                                  THE AFRICAN CRY

My skin of ebony glittered still,
Its beauty exposed by the smiling moon.
My naked feet tickled earth mother,
And raised the sleeping dusts
Dancing to the lyrics of the talking drum
And to the voices of the whirling trees.

The dance of the gods,
Thumb, Thumb dance,
Iyele.

The era of childhood nears its end,
And a man, I must become,
To eat from the same calabash,
Bronze or broken, wealth or poverty,
With men of gray wisdom, blood!
Errors now begot death,
And all must aim for high esteem,
In the honor of a black continent,
Iyele.

The whipping palm scorches my glowing back,
The bitter wine stings my helpless tongue,
More scorches and more stings,
Is all there is to become a man,
And I cry out cries a child should,
The cry of an African child,
Iyele.

I have become a man!