Slowly, and as a Herd
the Sky-Borne Mountains Move.
Monumental peaks with no top in sight
the Morning Sun illuminating them,
they shine the Purest White.
"My Brothers the Clouds!" Cry I,
"What makes you move?
Why do you leave here,
and where to?"
"We know not,"
their rolling voices rumble,
"Brother wind pushes us,
we travel as the weed tumbles."
That something so Great