She is alive.
Aching, pulsing, and yearning,
As the children of the Nile
And the swollen bellies of Uganda
Feet scarred from the jutting rocks of the Sahara.
Lethargically the spilled blood creeps
Searching for a home
Banished from the bodies it came
Cursing the ground and staining
Souls.
Times of old,
Forgotten.
A look into her eyes, bold
Beautiful
Condemn’d from her start.
Curs’d from origin
Never lov’d
She is many things.
The scorching plains
The rivers
Ever-flowing through her vex’d veins.
See her beauty, though much more
Pristine in her youth.
She is still something,
Immaculate.
Home to the abandoned and forgotten,
Exiled and down-trodden.
Africa.