I labor below these clouds each day.
They billow, and fold, and break.
They break, and billow, and feather away
As I labor below their escape.
The light from above them is narrowed and sharp.
It slices and cuts at the earth.
The earth that it slices retreats to the dark
And the light up above is unhurt.
I scream at the pace of the traveling wind,
But it never takes note of its stride.
I stride, but I never catch up in the end,
And it screams at the pace of my pride.
If the clouds ever scatter and let loose the light,
And the winds boil and set fire to land,
Then the land that the wind blows away will ignite,
If the clouds ever scattered and ran.