By The Mango Tree

Oh whilst the time when the young damsel sat upon the swing,
A merry song ran between the newly bloomed of the mango tree.
As she clutched the ropes of her swing tighter in fear,
The wind did bellow her long plaited hair hither thither.
Her eyes closed, lips muttering the antediluvian song,
She swayed upon the brittle swing that raged on the aged mango tree.

Now sixteen, fully bloomed with love and budding lost innocence,
She still sways, but no antediluvian song she sings.
Still her lips do move as she mutters the ways of the time.
The wind now is rather stale; the fields beyond have gone away
A lone tree sits by bereft plots, as alone too she awaits.
Her eyes close, lips muttering her lover’s await,
She swayed upon the brittle swing that raged on the aged mango tree.

She now aged, gray, wishes no more to sway,
For in her aged heart memories lay astray,
Her plaited gray no more dare to be the winds prey; her age had given away.
Her wrinkles slowly etched a story of innocence that once lived.
That bellowed by the lone mango tree, that now stood crippled by age
Like her too, the brittle swing gave away, and by the lone rope swayed astray
The antediluvian song still stayed, weaved upon the swings way,
As her lips once more muttered its sins away.
As her lips once more muttered its sins away.