I used to love her,
Africa; that lady.
Beautiful and proud.
I loved her in my childhood,
when all I knew of her,
were warmth and juicy fruits,
when I was kissed gently by her sun,
and it’s heat caressed me.
I loved her still,
Africa; that woman.
Before I understood her struggles
and while I scorned her strength.
In the first blush of my youth,
before I knew more of her bitter history
and her storied past.
I loved her,
Africa; that Whore.
When in my old age, I saw her again.
She had been taken by strangers
and raped by her very own.
The face I see on her,
is wrinkled by pain
and her bones creak with humanities age.
I used to Love her,
Africa; that beauty,
In her hay day of warrior women and dignified palaces
and now,through her indignities and crumbled pride,
I love her even more.