The Man Who Eats Clouds

The Man Who Eats Clouds

He said he could taste the sky,

That every cloud had its own song,

He’d stretch his arms and close his eyes,

And swear the world was never wrong.

He wore odd shoes, his hat too wide,

He spoke in riddles, soft and clear,

He said the rain was born from dreams,

And thunder laughed for those who fear.

In cafés he would steal the foam,

From strangers’ cups of milky steam,

And grin as though he’d caught a ghost,

Inside some half-remembered dream.

He called the pigeons by their names,

He bowed to lampposts, kissed the breeze,

He’d wave at buses passing by,

And hum his tunes to empty seas.

Once I asked him why he smiled,

At things that no one else could see,

He said, “The world’s already mad,

I’m just as sane as I should be.”

He claimed the clouds were messages,

From those who’ve gone but never gone,

And every shape that drifts above,

Reminds the earth it must move on.

And now when storms roll through the hills,

And skies turn wild and winds unchain,

I almost see him standing there,

With arms stretched wide to taste the rain.

They called him strange, they called him lost,

A fool who danced where others sighed,

But I believe he knew the truth,

That joy’s the place where reason died.