We have passed many mango seasons
We are still mango in tree and cuckoo
The latter shouting for west hills rain.
We can pelt no stones at mangoes now
But can eat stones off their sweet pulp.
Our eaten stones sprout tender leaves
From stinking garbages homes to pigs.
When they grow big they host cuckoos
Their branches rub each other in love.
Our mom is now mango to the breeze.
She can make no more mango pickles
But hosts mango tasting cuckoo music.