And then,
It always stood,
Stock still,
Rooted to the ground,

All days were blazing summer.
All months were blazing summer.
All years were blazing summer.
All time was scorching summer.

One day,
When a mile long procession,
Of flying birds,
Some geese and some Siberian cranes
Told him,
Of other beautiful lands,
He thought,
It was make believe.

When they told him,
"Come! Join the gang!
He agreed to fly,

There, he saw,
With his own eyes,

Fluffy, cotton clouds that waved out to him,

He saw,
The earth and the sky,
Dressed in a thousand
beautiful colors,
Lilac and mauve,
pink and orange,
red and purple,
golden and silver,
violet and russet,

Of all that he had seen in the new land,
Then and there,
Pink feathered and white eyed,
Century Mind,
The flamingo,
Wrote high verse in the sky,

That left disheveled skid marks,
On scattered tracks of white clouds,

Slowly, he rolled up all his verse,
Into one big, bright cloud book,

Which he carried back home,
On aching shoulders and tired wings,
To read out to his friends,

Then,
When he unwrapped,
his cloud book of verse,

Which he had carefully shielded,
From scorching sun and harsh gales,

No one believed,
His words.

They said,
His eyes were affected.
His sight had far exceeded the limits,
of acceptable vision.