Mama, don't cry.
Your son is coming...
coming to drain your tears
from the sucken valleys
of your swollen red eyes.
Mama, it is time to sing.
Sing the sweet songs...
songs that merry my heart...
melodious music of nightingales
when the storm is calm.
Black mama,
embrace the son of your bossom.
Run, with open arms
and kiss his homecoming.
From alcatraz of slavery,
den of beligerent ogres,
he has come to oil your skin
which is lamp of life,
ardour of our ancient heritage...
the cord of our existence.
