They cross borders without complaint, embracing every landscape without judging or comparing. They watch, like fleeting guardians, intent on seeing life endure on Earth.
They experience their emotions without restraint—moving from laughter to tears without embarrassment, from anger to calm without misgivings, from aggression to forgiveness without hesitation.
They love mountains as much as plains, speed as much as slowness, contemplation as much as excess.
They accept that their existence is fleeting and, like gliders without passengers, become intoxicated by the music of the wind.
Clouds take on every shape—from the most extraordinary to the most insignificant, from the most gigantic to the most minute—yet nothing prevents them from moving forward together, in a disorderly swarm, as though perfection could emerge from chaos.
They seem to mock puzzles, forever flirting without ever merging. Clouds are so singular that describing them can make one dizzy, like a sudden, overwhelming encounter that sends butterflies fluttering through the stomach.
They break the monotony of the blue sky and its silences. They make the vault of heaven tremble, as though they wished to play their own part in Creation. Clouds make us weep, but they also make us dream.
They make us long to join their journey, to make their serenity our own. Like white elephants, flying and misshapen, they seem to show us a path—the path of the current, the path of the present moment.
