Below the mango tree,
I sit on my wooden chair,
zoning in and out
of the trap of my conscious death.
Thinking of things
already thought out a hundred times before—
the moon in day,
the sun at night,
the uncertainty of human nature,
the unpredictability of the future,
and the never-changing life cycle.
Amidst rustling leaves,
lingers the whispers of ages past,
weight of existence weighting me down,
the melting moments that slip through fingers,
are grains of sand in desert.
As shadows stretch and fade outside the door
I find solace in the cycle,
the ripened mangoes under the sun,
a reminder of waiting sweetness
in stillness and shakes of shadows
life unfolds,
forever changing,
forever the same.
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