Here’s a sweet, gentle poem about Africa, its culture, love, kindness, generations, and those olden days lights.
Africa is a heartbeat,
soft and strong at once,
a drum across the evening sky,
a laugh at breaking dawn.
In the village where the red dust sings,
children run with barefoot joy,
sharing mango slices, sticky hands,
every game a shared toy.
An old woman sits beneath a tree,
wrinkles folded like stories,
her voice a river of long-ago days,
her words carrying hidden glories.
An old man leans on his walking stick,
eyes bright like evening stars,
telling tales of how they used to dance,
before the world became so fast, so far.
In the olden days, when night would fall,
there was no neon, no bright white glare,
just lanterns glowing soft and warm,
and fires that pulled all hearts near.
Under those lights, stories were bridges,
connecting young and old,
a child’s small hand in a weathered one,
new dreams wrapped in ancient gold.
Women shared love in quiet ways—
a bigger scoop of food on your plate,
braiding your hair, humming old songs,
waiting for you when you came home late.
Men showed kindness in steady forms—
fixing a roof before the rain,
walking you home on empty roads,
calling your name like a gentle refrain.
Culture lived in every moment:
in the dance where feet kissed dust,
in the cloth wrapped neat around the waist,
in the language spoken with trust.
Neighbors were more than just neighbors,
they were aunties, uncles, second moms,
the whole street raising every child,
teaching them songs, proverbs, and psalms.
Love was not just in big speeches,
it was in shared water and shared bread,
in making sure no one sat alone,
in “have you eaten?” softly said.
Africa is still that endless thread,
from olden lamps to phone-screen light,
from tales beside the fire’s glow
to messages sent late at night.
The world may change, the times may move,
but kindness never goes away;
it lives in children’s shining eyes,
and in the elders who still pray.
And if you listen, really listen,
past the noise and city cries,
you’ll hear the same old village love
still beating beneath African skies.
Africa is a heartbeat,
soft and strong at once,
a drum across the evening sky,
a laugh at breaking dawn.
In the village where the red dust sings,
children run with barefoot joy,
sharing mango slices, sticky hands,
every game a shared toy.
An old woman sits beneath a tree,
wrinkles folded like stories,
her voice a river of long-ago days,
her words carrying hidden glories.
An old man leans on his walking stick,
eyes bright like evening stars,
telling tales of how they used to dance,
before the world became so fast, so far.
In the olden days, when night would fall,
there was no neon, no bright white glare,
just lanterns glowing soft and warm,
and fires that pulled all hearts near.
Under those lights, stories were bridges,
connecting young and old,
a child’s small hand in a weathered one,
new dreams wrapped in ancient gold.
Women shared love in quiet ways—
a bigger scoop of food on your plate,
braiding your hair, humming old songs,
waiting for you when you came home late.
Men showed kindness in steady forms—
fixing a roof before the rain,
walking you home on empty roads,
calling your name like a gentle refrain.
Culture lived in every moment:
in the dance where feet kissed dust,
in the cloth wrapped neat around the waist,
in the language spoken with trust.
Neighbors were more than just neighbors,
they were aunties, uncles, second moms,
the whole street raising every child,
teaching them songs, proverbs, and psalms.
Love was not just in big speeches,
it was in shared water and shared bread,
in making sure no one sat alone,
in “have you eaten?” softly said.
Africa is still that endless thread,
from olden lamps to phone-screen light,
from tales beside the fire’s glow
to messages sent late at night.
The world may change, the times may move,
but kindness never goes away;
it lives in children’s shining eyes,
and in the elders who still pray.
And if you listen, really listen,
past the noise and city cries,
you’ll hear the same old village love
still beating beneath African skies.
