As an African child
I crawled on my mama’s arms
Searching for an imaginary house
Which bore me with a fancy view
Of the passing clouds upon my head.

As an African child
I jumped many times of seeing the clown
Who laughed and cried
Making jokes
Acting an excellent spy
With many children in their uncanny bed.

As an African child
I saw the bitterness on my mama’s face
And tried to chase
Her shadow before her cheeks were wet.

As an African child
I drew my plan on the clay pot
I insisted to fly
Asking my sun to let me feel
The charming of justice light
And asking the darkness to rest,
Because I am that unfortunate
As an African child.