Under the Mango Trees

The gentle wind's blowing lightly;
The green grass's tossing free;
The birds are singing and chirping;
The death leave’s rolling quietly;
The swing is swaying with its rider;
The rider knowing as a little monster,
Is reading under the mango trees
At the backyard of the farm house.


Short Explanations: I finished this poem under the mango trees; it was about 2pm, but the sunlight cannot heat my body, for the heroin leaves had protected me strictly from that unkind sun. The breeze made me felt good, and the sound of the bird almost made me felt asleep. I was reading happily then.