Mr. Rice’s vessels can’t tame the rich black blood
That flows in my veins
Graceful lands, fruitful plains, adventurous hills
These are our native streets
Some of our forests remain chaste, our soils never impotent
Most proud I am of the black woman
Beauty’s prima donna, complexioned like Life’s cloak,
It speaks beauty, wedded strength
Under the shadow of her hair
My care is lightened by the suns of her eyes
Its colour casts shadow on the stars
So formed and shaped, figure eight feels inferior
Her solemn voice is the hymn of the beloved, delight of minds.
She’s most fertile at heart – enough to grow humans!
The beauty of her inn strikes me to the heart
I implore you Mr. Rice, travel the seas
Come see her whose beauty I’ll sing
Till jealous Fate turns her to humus to feed roots of life.
Written by: Justice Gift Jite-Eda
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.