There’s a world, in cyan mirth,
Where doves coo, and skylarks soar;
Up, inside the elated vault,
Where angels sing melodies galore.
A stray cloud from the festivities’ throne,
Passes by the terraqueous earth;
It sits atop the mountaintop,
Bleached of its grey glorying adorn,
Crying its pristine berries, all but alone.
As the sun kisses the tender drops, its own;
Shimmering gold on silver:
Effulgence shielded by coats of green;
A honeysuckle smiles coyly from in between.
The cloud beholds: a twilight fantasy;
It sends rippling fragments of luminescent wishes,
Into the fragile vessel of the oceanic dreams;
As it sighs caressing its weighing heart,
The wind carries its smarting whispers to my lips.