Diamonds of Anger - Fred Small

    The boy rolls the hoop past the barricade
    Pushing it fast with a stick that he made from a coat hanger
    The hoop is the wheel of a rusted junkyard bicycle
    The girl on the corner plays the guitar
    It's a petrol can with strings of wire
    She sings a song from the tribal days
    But the words are new-- she sings "amandla."

    Blond surfers on white sandy beaches wait for the perfect wave
    The sky has no clouds at sunset they go home
    The sign says no dogs or natives allowed.
    Nervous white boys in combat gear
    Speed through the township in armored trucks
    People scatter but the soldiers run them down
    Kick them until the blood runs from their mouth

    We are diamonds of anger, we are brilliant gold
    Every blow makes us stronger, the chain cannot hold
    We are rocks against tear gas, we are songs against guns
    We are life against terror, we have already won.

    The old woman waits for the broken down bus
    To take her from this shantytown of tin and paper
    No toilet no running water
    The street is already hot
    She rides to the white homes of Johannesburg
    To mop the kitchen tile polish the silver
    Wipe the babies she must leave by nightfall.

    Sixteen on trial for plotting revolution
    Charged with singing songs of freedom
    Or being present when these songs were sung
    Or writing pamphlets or speaking at meetings
    Botha tells the whites what they want to hear
    The only votes he needs are theirs
    Crazed with their backs to the sea
    Drunk with the fear of retribution.

    Black babies white babies still reach out for each other
    Fingers stretching from passing prams
    Eyes amazed and smiling through doors and broken windows
    Straining to touch

    Behind the silence of Pollsmoor Prison
    Nelson Mandela reads the international press
    Receives foreign visitors
    The chief in exile, the lion at bay
    Give up violence say the key jangling jackals
    He answers let those who shoot my people
    Beat with whips. torture with electrodes
    Let these renounce violence and I will walk free.

    Teenagers born since he was imprisoned
    Hear the voice though they have never seen him
    Feel the tremors of righteous fury
    A vision burning a tidal wave coming
    New Leaders born in the school yards and churches
    Forged in the mines singing at funerals
    Turning to block the blow as it's falling
    Siezing the whip and standing rejoicing

    [Repeat Chorus]

    Words and music by Fred Small © 1987 Pine Barrens music


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