I guess these clouds never cared
about all the thousand ants in their shadows.
They couldnt care less about what grows and about what fades
under their covers, in their shades.

Gray and dark and filled with drizzle
or white and mounting to a thunder
the witness of the wetness is a wanderer
and a primrose prone to flourish or to shrivel.

And I guess these clouds above my head
do not differ between day nor night
as human kind does with wrong and right
grades of blue or red – aggrieved or glad.

Streaky and blurring filled with air
or a midnight daunting ceiling
they flow above the wanderers hair
they couldnt care less about his feeling.

They float above with dreary indifference
if the wanderer’s daring or is dreaming
is of greatest Insignificance
But its not daunting, it is freeing.


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