Did you say that, or I heard it my own, don’t know maybe your voice hangs on the silence of night’s sorrow or falls like a dead flower that droops in absolute silence. The whispers of mango orchard have an inimitable sweetness of Koyel’s cuckoo and its moving intoxicating madness. Could have written something for sure on the pristine white body of that moon holding your ring finger in my hand like some ancient stylus. I wonder if I could even write a fraction of what I want to write on the moon. My emotions are indomitable and never ending and the surface wanes interval days of every fifteen.