Even when hope was locked in slumber,
When no eyes could bear the sight of misery
When flames of conflict celebrated stolen victory
When no foot walked on the paths of memory,
When the brave hearts coasted to a halt,
A tree still grew, a tree grew in Kigali.
A tree in Butare, a tree scribbling stories
This tree, bending under the weight of memory,
Still grins when the sun rises, when it hears
Songs of happiness and voices that weave new dreams. 
This tree grows, it grows in Butare.
A tree in Gitarama, sways in the wind,
Whistles to the dove who builds a nest
With a hundred twigs—here life buds,
Blooms and grows feathers of hope;
Once ready, the young doves
Will carry a million leaves above the mountains
And across the plains; a million little leaves,
The scrolls of a new day of unity and forgiveness.
A tree grows, a tree grows in Gitarama.
A tree in Kibuye,  a tree with a hundred memories
A tree abundant with new fruits, ripening;
Fruits to feed more than a million mouths
Fruits to heal the wounds of history
Fruits to fill stomachs of anticipation,
Because history, once mystery, if now a fig tree.
A tree grows, a tree grows in Kibuye.
A tree grows in FORA—
You are its branches
Whose core of hope defies
Time’s hundred pneumatic drills.
A tree grows, a tree grows in FORA
A tree whose leaves are the weight of memory. 

Ends