How many times did you look at clouds
and see heroes
or, castles and, other marvelous hopefilled things
or just wanted to float upon one?
And, when did you first think
that like watching a glass blower, these airy, emergent wishes
were not just yours but, all of ours, the same;
these pink, blue, silvery white
coulds and mights?
And, did you once ask
whether the smoke stacks made clouds as well?
and someone told you no.
And, you learned.
That, is from man.
That, is the exhalation of failure.
And, the blue, blue, sky like heaven drew a little farther away.
And, later, older, you realized why cigarettes feel good but, are bad.
Cumulus, cumulative wishes.
Bits of us/dust
holding dear tears.
Cleansed bright, pure, and possible.
And, bowed to fullness
By the dimples of His hinted smile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem