Gray Clouds

Hark, gray skies, O weeping clouds,
Whose nuanced breath tears all asunder:
Hark, I have not ceased to wonder,
Watching as you pass those under,
What is it that makes you proud?

I will listen while you sing aloud
Your answer in your booming voice,
As loud as ever, and we, your toys,
Will tremble – yes. You have the choice:
Destroy us all in a flash of light.

Yet what evokes in you such spite,
Such envy and inglorious hate
That will doubtless seal your fate,
And – it will never, ever abate –
You will dissolve into thin air.

O gray cloud, your majestic chair,
Your throne, in which you sit and rule –
The sky – and, oh, your fearsome tool –
And nothing will it ever fool -
Men may fear you, men will hate you.

Men may fear you, men may hate you,
Skies may weep when you pass by,
Trees may wilt whenever you cry.
But the skies’ tears may all be lies,
And the trees may all be happy.

The gray-haired farmer is happy
When you peer over treetops.
You will feed his dying crops,
Quench their thirst with your teardrops:
And the farmer will be happy.

The rose-cheeked child is happy
When you visit his playground,
When you drench him in the sound
Of falling water, all around:
And the child will be happy.

O gray skies, O weeping clouds,
You are impossible to learn,
Your insidious gloom may burn,
Sometimes, but at other turns,
Gray clouds, you are truly alive.