Century-old mountains, sky-high, await,
for the fluffy cumulonimbuses to float away,
or to empty themselves into the hopeful seas,
to capture the streaks of blue amidst the white.
The clouds await that gentle streak of lightning,
to caress them, so that beads of raindrops, tipper and tapper,
on the ground, way below,
that old man smilingly,
would open up the old umbrella of memories from yesteryear,
of two souls, walking closely, their skins touching,
the sole umbrella for the company,
a paper boat sailing in the pool of water,
with their names, written on it.