You preach philosophies,
wishing to melt mountains with your mind.
You find its presence unfair to the desert,
always blocking out rain.
So you call yourself ambassador,
telling the mountain of the desert’s plight.
The mountain agrees,
lowering itself so that the clouds may be free
to travel elsewhere.
It gives equal chance to the desert.
But what to call a mountain
who no longer blocks the sun?
Who’s peaks no longer stand, among
thinning air?
What to call a desert, who’s
no longer dry?
The clouds dislike the evenness of travel,
the openness with which they glide.