These clouds are the same clouds that pass over that distant land,
Their cotton shapes coming together and separating like a great celestial orgy,
Their shades of white and grey a fitting mirror for the lives lived beneath them.
Where have these clouds rained, from what rivers have they risen?
What oceans have they swum with, what winds have they run with?
What lands given life to, what ravines have they plunged through?
As I lose myself in their shifting movement, I fly with them
And see the earth as they do.
What spectacular vistas they pass over, what diverse beauty –
and everything is so small.
These worries that trouble me, are they real?
Or but a silly habit of the mind learnt long ago to pass the time?
In this great expanse it is hard to remember that life is fleeting –
Should I trust my mind or my senses?
The riddle of life makes no sense up here, where the purpose of everything is perfectly clear –
And I laugh and I see that it’s really just fear
That stops me from being quite perfectly here.
And then tears overflow and I let myself go
And I find that I’m perfect, imperfectly so.

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