Ziyba

Ziyba a teen of Gambia
Worried alone at an orchard.
Heard him murmur aloud;
He looked confused,
But acts confident.
It seemed in his small brain,
There is war ongoing.

In slow-counted steps,
He stopped and steered,
Looking nothing at most
But focused with might.
He said "that is a lie"

The path was lonely
And he was on his two.
Except his wondering mind
That gave him a cave,
He didn't study the soil-
Nothing marred his mind
Off his stern-storming sense.

Something made me go close to him.
He was an only son
And he was going mad.
Kingsmen would ask after now
 what I did before the startment.
I know what been an African is,
A soul should be germeinschaft

When he saw me probing,
He cut a grass and made a bow,
Confusing himself the more.

"Son", so witty I called,
"Why is it sunny with you?"
He said his trap caught nothing
So said he without a glance.

"Tell me the issue, how many trap have you?"
So demand I with my empathic caution
I know his trap has caught much things.
He has many things uncooked.
I know his is at war, his father is late.
When he was less a decade in age.

What he said scored me off my reason.
Not of his demised father
Nor is it the wet road, or the owl last night.
"Is it true that winter is a season?"
So inquired he with some doubt.