Words are passing clouds
Men are hills, standing tall.
The clouds do cap the crests,
Becoming prone to pour.
But they, the clouds do drift,
heeding not the calls of hills.
Answer they the prayer
Of parched lands somewhere.
Clouds do reachback
To commune with hills and crests.
Again they hear the call,
Adrift away from persistent hills,
Towards thirsty lands somewhere
Or over dense forests on the way.
