I was asked to find all the droplets that fell from that sacred cloud.
Among a million others, they said it was special and made the sky proud.
How could one manage to find all the drops that belong to one cloud
When the fate of who they are is just water?
Maybe we are all like the clouds, an accumulation of something that's not ours to keep,
Just passing through, never touching the ground below nor escaping the atmosphere above.
In the end they all rain the same drops,
But it's where they fall that makes all the difference.
Some clouds let their drops go into a vast, lonely ocean.
Others try to make their way into barren lands and end up fruitless.
But a very few place themselves below lively, living things:
A father pointing out those tiny drops to his newborn daughter,
A tired worker looking up after a rough day,
A plant whose owner couldn't care much,
Myself, as I look above and hope it gets a little heavier.