The birthright of storm clouds both young and those old

A jagged line spasming in shimmering gold

Slicing the sky, cutting up its void tenfold.

Fruit of the feud between beings transcendent

On mere mortal lives nor weather dependent

Greying-hair colored in conflict too sentient.

Lovers feel it in their hearts; elders in bones

Tribal shamans see it in strewn sticks and stones

Approaches rolling thunder, skies’ raspy moans.

Perhaps the pull is not so foreign at all

Perhaps it’s nature that enchants droplets’ fall

Perhaps we are answering a primal call?

But what are dying clouds that clash with the new

But reflections of our own earthly venue

Sparked with vigor each generation anew.

Streaks drawn across the sky by a godly hand

Mirror our reverie like footprints in sand

For the heavens are still a humanly land.