Somewhere they're spreading their wings,
Somewhere they're running around,
Somewhere they look like poor holy men
Standing still in deep meditation.
Somewhere they're playing games
With their little cloud brothers.
And sometimes on mountains they make
Colorful beds of fluffed cotton.
They sail peacefully in the skies.
They bring us joy and tranquility.
They playfully lift our spirits and
teach us quite a few things humbly.
They take water from the earth
and give it back to her.
But we hoard and give back nothing.
So miserable are we.
Their shade makes us happy.
They pour down rains relentlessly
And disappear instantly asking
in return for nothing.
Their existence is not for themselves.
They live and die for us without complaints
except they say they cannot live now
among so many plants burning coal. It is
hot out there from the global warming.
They will die and so will we with the GOP
without clouds, shade, rains...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem