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The grieved lands of Africa In the tearful woes of ancient and modern slave In the degrading sweat of impure dance Of other seas Grieved The grieved lands of Africa In the infamous sensation Of the stunning perfume of the Flower Crushed in the forest By the wickedness of iron and fire The grieved lands The grieved lands of Africa In the dream soon undone in jinglings of jailer's keys And in the stifled laughter and victorious voice of laments And in the unconscious brilliance of hidden sensations Of the grieved lands of Africa Alive In themselves and with us alive They bubble up in dreams Decked with dances by baobabs over balances By the antelope In the perpetual alliance of everything that lives They shout out the sound of life Shout it Even the corpses thrown up by the Atlantic In putrid offering of incoherence And death and in the clearness Of rivers They live The grieved lands of Africa In the harmonious sound of consciences Contained in the honest blood of men In the strong desire of men In the sincerity In the pure and simple rightness of the stars’ Existence They live The grieved lands of Africa Because we are living And are imperishable particles Of the grieved lands of Africa. — Agostinho Neto
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