The clouds tell a different story
Each time they gift the thirsty earth
With a shower or drizzle.
Their broken form,
Doesn’t that evoke broken memories?
Sometimes?
What if they are aware of our pain?
But aren’t happy memories also made?
When we watch the school-boys jump in puddles?
But what if the morning drizzle that made you happy,
came from the cloud who was the sole witness to watch
that small boy put flowers in his father’s grave?
Who are we to render them emotionless?
No, say these things,
Are they trying to show that
How hard it is for us to cry for others?
How easily we take things for granted?
What if their Love has the power to give birth to a Rainbow?
Like ours of a child?
What makes them different then?
The ancient scriptures did speak of a forgotten bond
Where sages looked up at the cloud for unknown signs
What if they understood their language?
But in the end, what if these are just wasted reflections
Of a troubled mind?