Clouds are smoke of a burning sea.
They get in your hair in the jungle
When trees burn and climb up a 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 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.
Grandchildren will point their fingers
At dark clouds looking for lost bears.
They forget to recognize grandmas
In between so many clouds of smoke.