Pierced by the mountain peaks, so very high,
Directed by the wind in the blue sky.
I travel ‘round the world and everything I see,
Nothing escapes my notice, whatever it may be.
When the birds come, I enjoy their stay,
They come sing to me and then go away.
When night arrives, and everything is black,
I vanish suddenly but I know I'll be back.
The next day comes, and in the morning shroud,
I am visible again, a fresh white cloud.
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Comments about this poem (The Cloud by Varun Sivashankar )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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