They gave us a native brew
That they didn't allow to lag
They offered us freedom on a platter of clay
In our quaking hands and it dropped
We picked our freedom in bits and pieces
And our nation is on the fringes
Of a canyon wanting to fall.
They slept for us
So they took our dreams away with them
We either build our nation
Or it dies a stillborn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem