Like all other cities in the clouds
this one is often wet and always loud.

Its air heavy with the sweat of labour
and light with the soothing lunar caress.

Its bricks, the stuff of dreams,
raised by giants, manifested in concrete.

Its people the dreamers.
There shoulders drenched in hope

Walk with weeping umbrellas to the sky
in painful black soles...

...Past snow globe dreamlands
of nebular realms and rainbow twilights

Shielded in walls of nothingness thick
to keep the fantasies in and the phantoms out.

And she prances on the grey greasy pavement
blowing bubbles of soap that brave the rain.

Her chin - the sun.
Her breath - the monsoon winds.
Her curls - the streams in the woods.
Her forehead - the promised land to each raindrop.
And her soul - the bliss that lies in the space between worlds.