Damn the clouds, always drifting place to place,
As if we crickets have nowhere to be.
Water rushes down as it does from space,
And we poor crickets wonder how to see.
"Fairwell young cricket" the cloud says to me,
"Cloud you are lost and surely are forlorn,
Why else would you weep on my family,
And then disperse for somewhere else to mourn?"
The cloud departs, preparing for a storm,
To weep on other crickets like myself.
"How sad" I think to be a cloud so torn,
Lost among clouds like books on a shelf.
A young cricket has no time for such thoughts,
Just as a tiger has no room for such spots.
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