Whispers from First Earth

Beneath this sun’s ancestral flame,
Where baobabs bear me witness, still—
Africa stirs with sacred name,
In every plain and every hill.

The Nile, in silken stories told,
Winds through Nubian dreams of old,
Where Kush once ruled with a crown of gold,
And river gods their secrets hold.

Mount Kilimanjaro stands,
A sky-pierced crown of ancient lands—
The Chagga guards its snowy crest,
Their spirits are woven into rest.

In Sahel sands the Tuareg roam,
Their blue-veiled faces far from home—
Yet every dune and crescent wind
Is etched with tales their hearts have pinned.

Among the plains, the lion’s roar
Shakes acacias evermore.
Elephants, with wisdom worn,
Tread paths the Maasai long have sworn.

Each tribe, each track, each trembling tree,
It is stitched into the memory
Of lands that knew the first footfall—
Before the map, before the wall.

Africa, your soil still sings—
Of hunter’s bow and eagle’s wings,
Of voices old as time itself—
A living, breathing, sacred shelf.

So when the winds across you pass,
Through reeds and stone and shattered glass,
They speak not loss, but lineage true—
The land remembers. Do you too?