There was a cloud. A cloud unbound.

Travelling the sky, without any sound.

Misguided it drifted, its direction unknown,

Sometimes above, and sometimes below.

Carried by the storms,

And strong winds by its side,

With ease and speed it travelled,

Across the sky with great stride.

Carried by the breeze,

Never did it freeze,

You would even see it fly,

Across the gloomy leaden sky.

Then one happy summer day,

a small plane passed it's way.

Right toward the cloud its aim,

it did not wander, it did not sway.

Before the cloud had a chance,

To turn around and take a glance,

The small plane rushed,

And the cloud was crushed.

Dissipated mist,

the cloud had now become,

No more carried by the winds,

No more running with the storms.

There comes a day,

when a new cloud will form,

From the leftover mist,

and the droplets airborne.

But until then,

the cloud won't tell,

Of the day it had,

to bid us farewell.

That faithful day you see,

when that small cloud died,

That plane - it was her,

and that cloud - it was I.