Africa speaking

I hear people talk in honest ire,
Of a hopeless continent in quagmire;
But the hopelessness in me I don't understand,
I am merely a mass of bountiful land.
The hopelessness in people I see,
In those who fight day and night,
O'er petty lanterns of power,
In dazzling, broad daylight.
Hopeless are those who bury me dead,
With my untapped resources intact,
And blame others far and beyond,
For a brief episode of historical act;
So brief like the blink of an eye,
For a continent of aeons of age,
Whose people crossed borders and seas,
And filled the earth from edge to edge.
Hopeless are those who scorch me in war,
In tireless generations of petty fight,
Those who give no time to think and know,
That I am the richest land in nature's might.
Blame me not, blame no history of times gone,
Wake up and think, people of luck,
Only through diligence and sweat and toil
In the quagmires of hopelessness you won't be stuck.