Here’s a tale about one mango,

Whose end was not in a basket of fruit.

Green with envy, he originated from the town of Bissau,

And wished that soon, like the golden ripe, he would be tended to.


As days passed, he watched and anticipated,

Craving admiration, from the garden’s horticulturist.

But the story was unchanged, he felt unwanted,

And in harvest time, he was always missed.


When eventually he was ripe and in his prime,

He swayed with pride, gloating before the ‘still green’ others.

The fruit basket evaded him, though it was time,

And his impatience grew, and greater were his wonders.


He would swing about behind the leaves of the tree,

Trying to be conspicuous enough so he could be plucked.

Till one day, he made a fall, landing among the weeds,

And his efforts had only brought him the hardest of luck.


The fruit basket was nothing now but a dream shattered,

And he lived in shame, under a pile of dead leaves.

Such was the fate of a mango, overzealous,

And sadly many are ‘mangoes’ in this life of dreams.