Mangoes don't matter

A few families till their farm, in a village that knows no harm.

In one such households is born, a baby boy never forlorn. 

The villagers rejoiced at a new man, as was the custom of the clan, 

ripped a mango of its sour skin, and planted the fruit to be his kin.

Time whirled round as the baby grew, the mango leaves danced in the dew. 

The baby walked his first down the wall, the stems stretched desiring to grow tall. 

The boy learnt to play in the backyard, as the fragile mango branches muscled hard.

The boy learnt to swing on a tree, and the tree spread out its arms high and free.

A summer when he was sixteen old, came a soothsayer who hated gold, 

and to him the universe foretold, the youth would die when the days fell cold. 

The priest heard the prophecy alone, and wanted to perform a ritual atone, 

it was the sweet mango tree subject to vice, the human selfishness planned the malice.

If the man was to give his life away, the mangoes would ripen and fall in hay. 

Would he be born again and he grow, the youth on whom none would raise a brow. 

If the tree was to be cut and fell, none thought they would go to hell, 

for they would plant many mango seeds, and atone for their sinful deeds.

The mangoes would still bloom in sun, a few years later as the summers run. 

Had there been a loss of life, who cares when mangoes still eat your knife? 

Why do we not care for a tree to die, unlike a human who might even lie? 

Why is the human's life valued more, had he stepped down from the heavens' shore?

Maybe the coconuts high told the roses below, did you witness these humans' inhuman blow?

Maybe because we can't hear nor ever know, would we become the superior? Oh! Oh!!