It's a city I know
A song I sang.
There's blood on the sidewalk
It's his voice, burnt dust
It's his nails on the tank.
They beat him to death, he's cold, he's scared.
From any country, any color.
br/>Po Na Ba Mboka Nionso Pe Na Pikolo Nionso
He lived with words
That we passed under the cloak
Which shone like knives.
He played derision
Like a precision weapon.
He is on the cement, but his cursed songs
We know them by heart,
Music sometimes has major chords
That make children laugh but not dictators.
From any country, of any color.
Music is a cry that comes from the inside.
It depends on the latitudes
It depends on your attitude
It's a hundred years of solitude.
Y there is blood on my piano
There are boots on my tempo.
Below the volcano, I hear it, I hear it
I hear its heart beating.
The music sometimes has minor chords
Which make the teeth of the great liberator grind.
From any country, of any color.
Music is a cry that comes from within.
It's a city that I know
A song that I sang
A song that resembles us.
It's the voice of Mendela
The tempo Doctor Fela
Listen to the crowd singing
With the words that roll and make his heart beat.
From any country, from any any color.
Music is a cry that comes from within
Po Na Ba Mboka Nionso... Pe Na Pikolo Nionso

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