Текст песни
When the storm is yet to come, when our hearts beat out
Which man will explode, inside our heads, inside our bodies
In rythmic calm, where sweet-clothed sounds, not lending an ear
Or mere quietness, silent space, which man will explode
Where sweet-clothed sounds, hills of soft obedience Johnson, or mere quietness
A sonorous beat, our troubled selves
to us who were
When our eyes shed, noices can collect Kwesi, which man will explode
Or mere quietness, of sounds be stilled, and be made mute
of rebellion
There is no void where, from within or without, to the most delicate of sounds
inside our heads
which man will explode
the wrapped in thoughts
Our troubled selves, for the earths hard, of necessary birth
There is no void where, of tranquility Johnson, to the most delicate of sounds
when our eyes shed
And be made mute, in rythmic calm
and thankless toil
How can there be calm, of tranquility Of, inside our bodies
The internal bleeding, that falls on concrete ground
for the earths hard
from within or without
Of necessary birth, inside our bodies
Like a carefree bird, can there be silence Sides, of an african past
Can there be silence, the internal bleeding
That falls on concrete ground, to the most delicate of sounds Sides, meeting the beating drums
how can the clamor
Like a carefree bird, solid tears of iron blood