A breeze goes through the mango leaves,
struts its invisibility,
seducing with her coiling dance
the shapes of green fertility.
Laden with fruit of handsome May,
the branches bounce to reach for it
to rock their babies in their play,
as they enjoy the cuddling wind.
Outside this garden lies the world
soundless and numbed and forced to cease.
But in this patch of greenish joy,
life goes on sweetly for my tree.
Our house has become a sanctuary for all kinds of birds—and also mosquitos, unfortunately—. They come and feed on the ground and the trees—whereas mosquitos come and feed on us—.
And after so many years of my complaining against the noisy neighbors, all is finally quiet. No ear-piercing music, no swearing in the street, no morning parties. It’s been a high price to pay, though.
If you could sit here where I am now and hear the sounds of nature, like humans out there have understood they should be quieter and listen, you’d be in the mood for a poem, I’m sure.
