They're painted on my soul
and drawn on every cell.
I often think they're heaven
and sometimes know they're hell.
They come in restless moments
to hold me in their spell.
My memories of Africa
the land I loved so well.
The dust and heat, the dirt and flies,
I shudder just to think.
The unwashed skin, the cow manure,
the heat that makes one stink.
And when at last the day is done
there's nothing cold to drink.
But ah, my dear, tis Africa
there's tadpoles in the sink.
And people;black,black people
they throng the city streets.
They search for work,they dream,they hope
and hunt for food to eat.
While out upon the vast hot plain
walks a Masaai son,
herding endless droves of cattle
under the burning sun.
The gleaming teeth in faces dark
tell of simple joys.
Like campfire stories, roasting meat
of simple crafted toys.
You're welcome there-the chai is on
you sip and know the truth.
Tis Africa that weaves its spell
and I am living proof.
Though long, long years have come and gone
and I am not the same.
My heart is there no matter where
I live and play the game.
The woof of work and warp of life
the tasks I daily do,
are tapestries my Africa
with colours weaved from you.
Black the faces, gold the grasses
blue the sky above.
Red the sunset, diamond starlights
colours that I love.
I've spun no masterpieces
from the memories I recall.
But don't forget my Africa
I loved you best of all.
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