Little children fall with the rain from the clouds.
Not the clouds bore them.
What will be?
They were born of cloud women —
Young mothers you swallowed up.

The young mothers are yours. Ours — the children.
They fall with the rain, with the storm.
What will be?
They mix with children of the earth,
Become young men, beautiful women.

The dead mothers yearn for their children.
And all human lips are yours.
What will be?
You give one puff —
And gray like salt are all black colors.

The end is close. We are all dying.