On the horizon,
there sat a cloud,
wispy and playful,
with the blue skies it found.

Noticed down below,
on the unforgiven ground,
little people that were brothers,
and by their brothers they were bound.

Cloud thought to itself,
'I should move around,
go far away from here,
so as not to hear that sound.'

Taking new position,
after its transition,
Cloud made of itself,
a new, improved edition.
Again becoming playful,
but aware that some are hateful.
Cloud had found some holy ground,
and for that Cloud was grateful.

One day Cloud was sitting,
shading a worker from the Sun.
Indeed it was God's bidding,
to know he and the worker were one.

The worker was very tired,
and the shade kept worker from quitting.
Then along came worker's master,
and the master began hitting.

Cloud thought to itself,
'what has he done wrong?
Why would master beat him,
so mercilessly, and for so long?'

Cloud could only watch,
its friend be put to death.
Had no voice to cry aloud,
even if it did,
it had no breath.

Cloud prayed to its God
and could not pretend,
that it didn't hold God accountable,
for the cruel treatment of his friend.

Cloud's mind confused and angry,
with no idea what to do,
began releasing tears,
and God thought, "good for you"

And then the rains came falling,
A gentle weep,
turned into bawling.
As the waters quickly rose,
he saw master fearfully crawling

Cloud's better angels were neglected,
and master was weaker than expected.
Cloud first took revenge,
by smashing master's monument,
that the workers had erected.

That was the last chance for master,
he really should have fled,
and indeed he would have,
if he knew what lied ahead.

But master clung to vanity instead.
"Where would these
lowly subjects be,
if it wasn't I that led?"

And with that thought,
master was stricken,
then dropped,
done in by a hailstone to the head.

Master lied twitching,
not yet was he dead.
Blood flowing from the wound,
a very unique shade of red.

The same color of the blood,
that his friend that sad day bled,
at the hands of a lowly master,
for simply not doing what he said.

Washed clean was the land,
on that day of the flood,
not by Cloud's tears however,
but by the master's blood.

Cloud's grief was forty days, long,
and forty nights, dark.
And the storm had finally receded,
when God said Cloud was needed,
to shade the workers on an Ark.
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