Белое облако вдали,
Ты мертвое крыло — но чье? —
Не долетевшее — куда?
Clouds are like some people. They born and die. They can be big and can be small. Some of them we enjoy to watch at. There’re certain type of clouds people wish to get closer and closer and fight a lot to make it.
And there’re clouds that fill us with respect and sometimes even fear. Such clouds can lift you up very quickly. And kill when only they do not need you anymore.
Nobody knows where clouds live and why they go this or that way. Why they appear, join together and broke. Scientists can just suggest.
Nobody cares what what clouds are thinking about, nobody tries to listen the music of the heart.