Clouds are smoke of a burning sea.
They get into your hair in the jungle

When trees burn and climb the sky.
Trees are a green sea below clouds.

They are vapor to please moody sun.
A sea burns too to please angry sun

Sympathetically, its bosom heaving
In waves , a somewhat platonic love.

Smoke happens on the street’s fires,
Near boss trees who shed their love

In leaves, scooped up by old women
For money to keep stomachs going.

The old women shall turn smoke too
When the stomachs will stop going.

Then they will go in the black clouds
And rain down on the grandchildren.


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