Clouds
are poems Nature writes in the sky
They
sing, for us to hear their songs
And
what fear they bring us leaves us
When
we sit still and what is stirring
In
the ticket becomes quiet and like babies
We
sleep away from what is afraid in us.
Then
many days after laboring hours
When
mute in a universe that roars around us
We
may hear at last again the uneasy songs in the poems
And
when we sing those poverty-stricken songs again
The
clouds move as if their awkward task is done.
Sometimes,
the whirlwinds sparkle like rollers and screeches
But
the seamstress of the Universe leaves the scissors
To
cut through shapes designed even though it wounds
When
the designer draws the long thread to knot the corners
Like tomatoes nude on the ranks faces torments as it burns in oil
Its
teeth only grits uncomfortable tense; but what can it do?
Soon,
the designer will return like the evening swallow with smiles
To
pour the sobbing tomatoes onto a plate and stretching a smile
Rejoices
in the shadow of a cozy comfortable homey shade
Not
remembering the discomfort of the destitute moments
When
the unsuitable restless whirlwinds blew painfully all hopes
And
disgust argues in the stomach and in the pocket was pennilessness.
Once,
I was there, an unacceptable embarrassing needy, unsuitable
For
the ashtray where I tried to stand up in the poem but rising
My
dreams were like a bird without wings in a world
Where
pain and disturbingly troublesome glances greeted every hope
Who
wants that when we know
The Titanic was sunk by only an iceberg?
