Bits of the clouds are not big enough for hills
To obscure and eliminate but enough vapor
As though they spoke white words of passion.
If it rains they shall disappear in tea bushes.
They are self-destructive,you see,in the hills.
They come in your bed rooms,to the fireplace.
But the fire got put out during the British days
And there are some cinders and charred logs.
There is no danger of fire singeing their flanks.
They therefore freely move about in the room
Touching cold cheeks to remind their lost youth.
In the mall they spit vapor to make ghosts of men
In long overcoats, their cell phones placed in ears
To prevent from singing needless songs in them.
If they enter ears they turn into a buzz like bees.