The Sky Let Fall Clear Drops

The sky let fall clear drops. Here we fly through the layers of air. Those closer to the sun — they're the greedy ones. Not afraid of a scorched sclera. They're not scared to burn up in mid-flight, Just to go back as steam to the Maker. Those further off laugh: "What a bunch of dimwits. All that happiness — and blown in one go." The road ahead of them isn't short — Learning to fly wouldn't hurt them a bit. Some are small, and some run down by the temples, And they all have complaints without end. Stopovers between bar counters. A couple of drops — then a drop at full speed. Something soaked up by dirty bunks, Giving the clouded one a little bit of a lift. Everyone loses their clearness with time. Some gave it away, and some got stained. Weeds from a volatile seed Are handed out for free and by the pack. We shatter exactly halfway down, Forgetting we've got to walk back. Crowds of those who learned from experience. Their share of the whole — a multiple. Seems that's just how the rule works: Some of the fallen, alas, won't return. And the stream of tears that have left the Lord Pours endlessly out of His eyes.