Clouds.
Air-brushed wisps to mackerel bellied speckles.
Drift windblown like the earths’ chiffon scarf.
They float in candy-cotton puffs
or grey washrag streaks. Bruised by storms.
Thrown and twisted. Cyclonic tubes suck skyward
and bring death in twisted tendrils.
Free-form sculptures in balletic poses
saunter across a blue stage
And ragged edges softly coil away.
Such are chameleon clouds that continuously change.
They die and reform in living moist beauty,
And are always fascinatingly there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem