Friday, March 02, 2007


Silvery-white, of raindrops made
No one really knows your name
They just call you ‘cloud’.
You shillouettte all so prize
Yet you float unfazed through the skies
All alone or in a billiowing crowd.

Colored deepest blue, or tender pink,
When threat’ning grey of rain you think-
The weather-vanes of the sky.
O, Lord who made every cloud
All sing your praises, the thundrous sound
Deafens and astounds my eye.

Thier praises resound in color
Magnificence unlike any other,
I pull out my camera and stare.
It copies the shades and hues
But reflects only minutely on You,
And the praises that echo there.