Over our heads masses are moving, whitish

*   *   * Over our heads masses are moving, whitish cottony, ghosts on the weather maps Windings, swirls, languid scrolls under the sting of the wind, wandering herds   Floating bodies. Appearing. Disappearing. In our own image.   We, more unstable than plants fixed to the ground or the fish sheltered in water We, unable to go back to the ancestral birds and flee into the stratosphere   Dominant, dominator winds, chubby sons of Aelous  yesterday pushing or smashing Ulysses’ fleet as they wish We, more destitute as we progress, our soul eaten away by matter, at the mercy of an incendiary night  

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