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Clouds
I drink from the brine,
     a pond or warm wine.
To bloat and to lie,
     as I pass the world by.

Grander than spires,
     as for mountains, much higher.
A mat, full and deep,
     on which no one can sleep.

Yet I bow to the breeze,
     less substantial than fleas.
Then far from my birth,
     I shed my great girth.
 

 
 

 
 
 
 

 


 
draws itself from moisture

completely passive
travels long distances

grows to colossal sizes
high in the sky
cottony appearance
little substance

travels by the wind


rain