The Mango Tree

Heated up for a year another,
there's the giant mango tree,
a stout one and long branches,
vanishing into the sky's infinity.

Hiding me behind the trunk,
in a game of hide and seek,
a friend in need he was,
for a child so mild and meek.

Lovely in midsummer days,
glistening fruits he held,
and sad when bereft of them,

as precious as pearl and emerald.

From a child, an old man now,
I walk by a piece of wood,
the tree stands where it was,
against all seasons it could.

My skin's wrinkled with folds,
but he's hard and intense,
I may fade away anytime,
he would then weep in silence.