Outside my window is that tree,
– a mango tree, old and green.
It’s been there since I opened my eyes.
To date it hasn’t failed to bear fruits:
Mangoes sweet as wild honey.
When its leaves rustle, I hear lores of love.
I see a pole star emerge when the branches bend.
The white tiny blooms every spring,
whisper its intoxicating presence;
air around turns holy.
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