Happy is our nation

Lying smoothly abreast a maiden’s blooms
A pint though but satisfied is for its bosom

In its valley’s glistens a golden harp
That meanders like a python going for a nested trap;
In its tranquil strings
Lays all melancholy’s fringes;
By its flanks are carpets
Whose greenery buoys all souls by its lengths.

But I am the least joyous to breathe by its countable hills
Wherein I see many miles of flattened pieces,
Treacherous patches of sun-baked vegetation
That no omnivore or vegetarian care.

The courteous boughs of alter-ego have thence faded
Lest of the least praised when braided;
Trumpeting no more,
Roaring no more,

Chattering no more,
Crying no more,
Lest of brays, hisses, neighs, and moos,

The Gambia, our Gambia,
Happy is the nation, but doomed between perplexities.
The Gambia, our Gambia with a loom of uncertainties.

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