In the labyrinthine market of dawn’s embrace, beyond stalls moved by hushed whispers,
rests the mango clad in velvet whispers. Its peel murmurs incantations when touched
by twilight. Are those the notes of time meandering past silent rivers? Portals opening.
Is the curtain drawn or open?
Ripples taste cyan by choice,
and eastward gales resume laughter—
spinning wheels like dancing suns,
capturing secrets shed by mango flesh.