The wind does not cry in Africa.
The flat, wide spaces allow her to move freely
Her waist twists creating a figure-eight
Dancing
Flirting with the blades of grass
Bumping hips with the trees

In Africa
She cools off the children playing in the scorching sun
She sings a song
Of freedom
Of bliss
In Africa she is free;
The wind does not cry in Africa.

But here she wails-
A professional mourner at a funeral –
She begs to be freed
As she is squeezed and violently spat out between buildings.
She roars with anger at those
Who erected the structures that cause her pain;
At those
Who cause her pain-

She cries for Africa.
Her blood is cold.
Her soft feminine metamorphoses into a spear.
She shoves and slaps.
She tosses and creates chaos.
When she is quiet, she is dejected-
She is tired of begging to be freed in an environment unbothered by her pain.
The wind does not cry in Africa.
The wind cries for Africa.

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