Ehh! Children of the sun, daughters of the soil,
You who carry fire in your veins and oceans in your souls,
Come closer, let me sing of your glory.
Let me tell of the strength in your stride,
The wisdom in your eyes, the songs in your hands.

When the storms came, did you not rise?
Did you not gather your children,
Wrap them in stories of roots and skies,
Feed them on bread kneaded with hope,
And love baked over the coals of endurance?

Ayyy! Mothers, you are the rivers—
Wide, deep, flowing through generations.
When the world pressed its weight on your shoulders,
Did you not bend, but never break?
Did you not plant seeds in barren lands,
And make them blossom with the rain of your tears?

Hah! Look at you, wearing history like a crown!
Your laughter dances like drums on the wind,
Your voice—ah, your voice!—
Is the voice of the market, the church, the yard,
Binding the lost, lifting the weary, teaching the young.

Listen now, to your praises sung in whispers:
“She is strength; she is love; she is life itself.”
Afro-Caribbean mother, woman, warrior,
The world rises because you stand tall.
Hmmm, we see you, and we are grateful.
Forever, we are grateful.

May the earth honor your steps,
May the seas remember your name,
And may your children never forget
The fire from which they were born.

You are the heartbeat of our people.