Your children come back to you
Out of the storm and squalls of fruitless journeys.
Through the crest of the wave and the babbling of the breeze,
Over the hold of the east
and the purple of the settings sun,
the peaks of the proud mountains
and the grasslands drenched with light
They turn to you
out of the storm and squalls of fruitless journeys.
Dry your tears, Africa!
We have drunk
From all the spring
of I'll fortune
and of glory.
And our senses are now opened
to the splendour of your beauty
to the smell of your forests
to the charm of your waters
to the clearness of your skies
to the caress of your sun
And to the charm of your foliage pearled by the dew.
Dry your tears, Africa!
Your children come back to you
their hands full of playthings
and their hearts full of love.
They return to clothe you
in their dreams and their hopes.