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Click hereWhen the air is heavy
with portents of fair winds
does the eagle fly
ever so high
Shall the Cloud lower itself to the waves,
kiss the tops
and return.
Sometimes I see,
spy far away
the mote in My eye
wouldst it be thee
faring afar
venturing little
does the power cease
or begin anew
where does it draw its sustenance?
The well may dry
but the desert lives
parched and waiting
Never does that Cloud come near
shimmering in its pregnant opulence
boding the wells of abundance
It shall be enough to fill the Need