The Orange cloud hovers over the Cliff.
Refusing to budge, even as the winds ram into it,
Each time the Orange cloud scatters and comes together,
as it gently floats just above the Cliff.
The Cliff begs for it to rain or move
For the sun can't get into it's groove.
Even when the people of the valley beseech and to the mighty cloud, stoop.
Unmoving, it hangs on there.
The priest sends up a sacrifice,
asking the Orange cloud why it wouldn't rain
Why put the timeless valley under such enormous strain,
Turning a blind eye to the children, why disregard these fields full of grain.
The Orange cloud hung on there.
Eating into the cliff, rock by rock, dirt by dirt,
For centuries, for eons, it hung around, no feelings it showed - of anger or hurt.
Filled with a painful secret that only it could know, for the cliff it had love abound.
Until the cliff was merely but a stooped and tiny hillock,
The village but a haunt of the spirits without its living folk
Over the endless stretch of parched land,
The orange cloud shadowing the cliff, hung on there.
The large boulder, once the tiny hillock had been once the majestic cliff,
Called out to the Orange cloud and whispered, "I understand. I've known it all this while."
As it wept for all the lost time, it revealed its heart,
gentle and pure, they hadn't really been apart;
the Cliff had sent up water to sustain the cloud, all this time, even in exile.
As the water dried up, so had the soul of the grand cliff, shrinking it into a tiny hillock and then a mere boulder.
With no more water to send, the boulder cracked its broken heart,
rued for no more sustenance it could provide.
With one last look at its beloved, it disappeared into a mass of dust.
For ages thereafter, travelers from afar would come to see a curious sight,
as a massive brown cloud would hang next to an orange one, close but just.
Until a day would come, when the rains would hum
and these clouds would be one.
Refusing to budge, even as the winds ram into it,
Each time the Orange cloud scatters and comes together,
as it gently floats just above the Cliff.
The Cliff begs for it to rain or move
For the sun can't get into it's groove.
Even when the people of the valley beseech and to the mighty cloud, stoop.
Unmoving, it hangs on there.
The priest sends up a sacrifice,
asking the Orange cloud why it wouldn't rain
Why put the timeless valley under such enormous strain,
Turning a blind eye to the children, why disregard these fields full of grain.
The Orange cloud hung on there.
Eating into the cliff, rock by rock, dirt by dirt,
For centuries, for eons, it hung around, no feelings it showed - of anger or hurt.
Filled with a painful secret that only it could know, for the cliff it had love abound.
Until the cliff was merely but a stooped and tiny hillock,
The village but a haunt of the spirits without its living folk
Over the endless stretch of parched land,
The orange cloud shadowing the cliff, hung on there.
The large boulder, once the tiny hillock had been once the majestic cliff,
Called out to the Orange cloud and whispered, "I understand. I've known it all this while."
As it wept for all the lost time, it revealed its heart,
gentle and pure, they hadn't really been apart;
the Cliff had sent up water to sustain the cloud, all this time, even in exile.
As the water dried up, so had the soul of the grand cliff, shrinking it into a tiny hillock and then a mere boulder.
With no more water to send, the boulder cracked its broken heart,
rued for no more sustenance it could provide.
With one last look at its beloved, it disappeared into a mass of dust.
For ages thereafter, travelers from afar would come to see a curious sight,
as a massive brown cloud would hang next to an orange one, close but just.
Until a day would come, when the rains would hum
and these clouds would be one.
