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Clouds are not clouds,
Still but gliding letters
On a blue page
In the absence
of a clear aim.
Light but strong
to move one’s dreams,
unaware of the sky-writing
they do.
I want but cannot take them home,
I read them on the wet sand,
I step on them,
I stab them with a toe
“en plein air”.
I’m never sure who the artist is
and if the artist is aware
of us, of me and you –
the backdrops to the sky’s scene,
not even feeling that we move
1600 kilometres per hour
around the Earth’s axis.