Usted buscó: africa ,my africa (Inglés - Tagalo)

africa ,my africa
africa, ang aking africa

africa my africa poem
africa, my africa africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs africa of whom my grandmother sings on the banks of the distant river i have never known you but your blood flows in my veins your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields the blood of your sweat the sweat of your work the work of your slavery africa, tell me africa is this you, this back that is bent this back that breaks under the weight of humiliation this back trembling with red scars and saying yes to the whip under the midday sun but a grave voice answers me impetuous child that tree, young and strong that tree over there splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers that is your africa springing up anew springing up patiently, obstinately whose fruit bit by bit acquires the bitter taste of liberty.

africa, my africa africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs africa of whom my grandmother sings on the banks of the distant river i have never known you but your blood flows in my veins your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields the blood of your sweat the sweat of your work the work of your slavery africa, tell me africa is this you, this back that is bent this back that breaks under the weight of humiliation this back trembling with red scars and saying yes to the whip under th
africa, my africa africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs africa of whom my grandmother sings on the banks of the distant river i have never known you but your blood flows in my veins your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields the blood of your sweat the sweat of your work the work of your slavery africa, tell me africa is this you, this back that is bent this back that breaks under the weight of humiliation this back trembling with red scars and saying yes to the whip under the midday sun but a grave voice answers me impetuous child that tree, young and strong that tree over there splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers that is your africa springing up anew springing up patiently, obstinately whose fruit bit by bit acquires the bitter taste of liberty.

africa, my africa africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs africa of whom my grandmother sings on the banks of the distant river i have never known you but your blood flows in my veins your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields the blood of your sweat the sweat of your work the work of your slavery africa, tell me africa is this you, this back that is bent this back that breaks under the weight of humiliation this back trembling with red scars and saying yes to the whip under the midday sun but a grave voice answers me impetuous child that tree, young and strong that tree over there splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers that is your africa springing up anew springing up patiently, obstinately whose fruit bit by bit acquires the bitter taste of liberty.
aprika