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Clouds are passing by

Like a never - tiring stream;

Observing all they don't partake,

Outlasting generations

Mankind turns out to be the murderer

Of its very own mother

But when the child is dead and gone

She’ll rise again - to bear another child

How many children

And how many mothers

Have passed away...?

Clouds will be the same –

Above the next child

They’ll be passing by.

Only when the clouds are gone

The mother can die at last.

There is a mother

That can create new ones:

Our mother is but a child

Of uncounted other mothers