Celestial Whispers

White clouds, fast or slow,
drift across the blue with nothing to say.
Shapes that change, light and gentle,
weaving tales of wordless brevity.
No sound descends from their passing,
yet a song emerges in the space.
An echo of light, a shadow that slides,
their soft whispers articulate the soul.
Without any voice, the sky is a theater,
of distant dreams, of a time never born.
The mute song, mystery without end,
the clouds dance, eternal and divine.