Parched grass stilled in misery
contrasting the sky’s beautiful mystery.
The wind blows, but the blades are still,
and as cool winds, their hearts are filled
with stone colder than the atmosphere.
Not a twitch, nor a sound to hear.
A patch of stiffened foliage burns
no fire, no toss, no turn.
And on these blades rain does not pour
to douse the flames, for water, poor.
It used to rain plenty in the Fields of Stone
but the world ran out of tears to weep.
And so each blade of grass, rigid and frail,
falls to pieces
with the silent wind.
The clouds move their same sluggish pace
we now travel faster
than the wind,
and the clouds,
they struggle to keep up
with each piece of us.
While we surf the Winds of Glory,
We shall win the race for the universe.