Clouds are just sky potatoes,

Wild wandering ghosts.

Not alone they,

Go on an eternal parade:

From the Pacific to the Atlantic,

From the Himalayas to the Mont Blanc.

The wind, restless, merciless,

Their friend and their foe.

The clouds were sold

By Judas Iscariot, the whip

Of Roman soldiers falls on them.

Forced, the clouds endures,

Their martyrdom until

it rains.

The soil, the dust,

Thirst for their blood,

Drinks and stirs,

Memories in coffins, leak,

The resurrection of spirits.

Strange potato sprouts.

The clouds, erased of their memories,

Go on once again.