Beneath the ancient baobabs tall,
Where ancestors’ whispers call,
The land remembers, yet weeps,
For promises broken, and secrets it keeps.

The rivers once pure, now stained with tears,
Of children lost, and enduring fears,
The scars of history etched deep,
As mothers mourn and fathers weep.

Through the savannahs, the winds still sigh,
Songs of freedom, dreams that fly,
Yet chains of past do bind the soul,
Struggling to make the broken whole.

But hope arises with each dawn,
As brave hearts refuse to be torn,
From the ashes, strength is born,
To reclaim the land, to heal the scorn.