Clouds

Clouds in the sky, eternal wanderers!
Through the cerulean fields as a pearly stream
You flee as if you are outcasts like me,
From the dear North to the South.

What is it that makes you run? A fateful decision?
A secret envy? An undisguised hatred?
Or are you burdened with a crime?
With the poisonous slander of friends?

No, you are bored with fruitless fields,
Passions and sufferings are alien to you;
Eternally cold, eternally free,
You have no home, you can't be cast out.

1840