When I am no more

Standing, as often I do, beneath my old mango tree, I wonder how it would look without the leaves. Without the mangoes, without the branches Without the birds that sit preening on them. The thick trunk sawed off, roots pulled out Tiles or cement choking the earth.

For one, sunlight would be brighter; and glare Upon the tiled roof of my house. No more yellowed leaves to sweep away in the morning. No more bird droppings to wash off No more bat-eaten, splattered mangoes. No more flies swarming around No more air, thick With the smell of the ripe, golden fruits. No more, the tapping of the woodpecker No more, the screeching kites. No more, the night heron resting No more, the crows squabbling No more, the squirrels scuttling.

No more, the wind-dance of the branches No more, the chatter of leaves. No more, the creaking swing No more, the green, greeting my eyes. No more, I, the boy who gazed up the tree, longing,with love.

I look around for a fallen twig - Last mangoes of the season dangle in the sky.